


Ransomed Prince

by TurtleTotem



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Auguste (Captive Prince) Lives, Canonical Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-05-21 03:27:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14907428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurtleTotem/pseuds/TurtleTotem
Summary: When 13-year-old Prince Laurent is captured by Akielos at the Battle of Marlas, his brother must choose whether to abandon him to life as an Akielon slave -- or ransom him as an Akielon's future husband.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (First chapter posted on tumblr in three parts: [1](http://turtletotem.tumblr.com/post/174581092661/untitled-arranged-marriage-fic-pt-1), [2](http://turtletotem.tumblr.com/post/174637872676/untitled-arranged-marriage-fic-pt-2), [3](http://turtletotem.tumblr.com/post/174707486766/ransomed-prince-arranged-marriage-fic-pt-3))

"Father, I can beat him."

Damen held his father's gaze, refused to let his manner show anything but steadfast confidence and strength. He should have been on the battlefield before now and they both knew it; it was only Theomedes's protectiveness of his heir that had held him back. They couldn't afford such coddling now.

"Father," he said again when Theomedes did not speak. "Even with their king slain, the Veretians will not surrender so long as they have Prince Auguste—nor should they! You heard the same report I did. He is carving through our men like a farmer at the harvest. But I can beat him. You know I can."

Theomedes took a breath—and nodded, firm and brisk as if he had needed no persuasion. The king never backed down from a decision once he had made it. In a proud, ringing voice he called, "Dress the prince for battle!"

The royal armorer and his attendant slaves swept Damen into his tent and readied him to fight, strapping him into breastplate and greaves, shield and helmet—

"This won't do," the armorer said suddenly, pulling the helmet away before it was fully in place. "Exalted, were you aware of this damage?" He turned the helmet, showing Damen a deep scratch in the side.

Damen frowned, only vaguely recalling a blow to the head in a recent sparring bout. "No. Is it deep enough to be a weakness?"

"I must test it, Exalted."

Damen let out an impatient breath. "Do so quickly. Every minute we delay, more good men fall to the Prince of Vere's sword."

The armorer scurried out, and Damen sent the slaves out as well, their work accomplished. He could take a moment alone to focus his mind and prepare for battle.

The moment the tent flap closed behind the last slave, leaving Damen unattended, a slender figure left the tent's shadows and leaped at him with a knife in its hand.

Damen's body reacted before his mind could, knocking the blade aside and striking the figure—a young boy—across the face, then kicking his legs out from under him.

The boy immediately tried again, even disarmed, a rough scream leaving his throat as he threw himself at Damen with only his bare hands. Damen deflected the second attack even more easily than the first. He slammed the boy into the dirt and pinned him there with a knee, arms wrenched up behind his back.

"What are you trying to do, child?" Damen exclaimed. "Who are you?"

Several people had entered the tent behind them, drawn by the noise. Damen waved them back, and the boy took advantage of that distraction to nearly wriggle free. Damen had to slam him down into the dirt twice before he stopped struggling.

"Are you done?" he asked, exasperated.

"Are you going to kill me?" The boy's voice shook but he kept its tone flat, trying not to betray fear. He was speaking Veretian. Of course he was, Damen thought, noticing his bright blond hair and fair, tear-streaked face. Of course he was Veretian; that was all the reason he needed to try to knife Damen.

"No, I don't think it's remotely necessary to kill you," Damen said in Veretian. "I am, however, taking you prisoner."

He pulled the boy to his feet and gave him a brisk patting-down that turned up no further weapons. An onlooker held out a length of rope; Damen used it to tie the boy's hands and feet together behind his back.

"I have no further time to waste on you," he said, then switched back to Akielon to address one of the slaves. "Take this boy to my father. Do not let him escape. But there is no need to treat him harshly," he added, when he saw the hardness of the slave's expression—of most of the expressions around him. No one took well to the fact that this little Veretian had tried to assassinate their prince. "He is no threat now." _He never was, for all his efforts._

The boy did not struggle as he was hauled to his feet and toward the flap of the tent—until he saw that Damen was taking his helmet back from the armorer. Then he went from resigned to frantic in an eyeblink.

"No! No, damn you, you can't ride out there! Please! I will not let you fight Prince Auguste!"

Damen held up a hand to stop the slaves dragging him away, and considered the boy with a frown. "I find it hard to believe you're concerned for my safety," he said as the boy continued instinctively pulling at his bonds, chest heaving. "No," Damen realized, "you're trying to protect _him_ from _me._ What's the matter, are you not confident in your prince's fighting prowess? Am I that much a legend in Vere?"

"This is what you are in Vere," the boy said, and spat onto Damen's boot.

Damen couldn't help smiling. The child certainly had spirit. Not that child was quite the right word—he had to be twelve at least.

How old was the younger Veretian prince? Wasn't it thirteen?

"You have the coloring of the royal family," he said, and the boy's eyes widened, body going still. He glanced around frantically, as if looking for a lie to hide behind, and Damen knew.

"Prince Laurent," Damen said, resting a hand on the boy's shoulder. Laurent tried to shake it off, but Damen held firm. "You came here to save your brother's life. I am pleased to say you've succeeded."

"What?"

"There is no need, now, for me to fight him. He will surrender as soon as he finds out we have his brother."

***

The first exchange of messengers brought the battle to a grinding stop. Damen watched as commanders hurriedly pulled back their men, both sides glad of the reprieve. What remained in the middle of the field was a nightmare mess of bodies, dead horses, and blood-churned earth. Damen made sure physicians were sent out under white flags to collect the wounded; Vere quickly did the same.

Prince Laurent had been put under Damen's supervision while everything was arranged. He stood beside Damen on the hillside outside the tent, his spine straight, cheeks sporting a high red blush of mortification. _He'll be stunning when he's older,_ Damen couldn't help thinking. For now, he strove for the composure and dignity of a grown man—though his shoulders, pulled tight by his restraints, betrayed him with occasional trembling, and the wet streaks on his face still had not dried. Damen suspected that the boy was still shedding tears at odd moments, when no one was looking.

"You're safe, Your Highness, there's no need to be afraid," Damen said.

"I'm not afraid of you, imbecile," Laurent said.

"Then why do you weep?" In the next moment, Damen realized what a fool he was. "Your father," he said.

"Yes, my father," Laurent snapped, more dangerously than Damen had thought so young a boy could sound. "Though I will not believe he's dead until I hear it from my own people. Akielons lie."

_"Akielons_ lie?" Damen forced himself to bite his tongue. Less than an hour after King Aleron's death was no time to declare all the man's sins to his young son. "Well, your people will tell you the same—your father was killed on the battlefield. My father will attribute it to the might of our warriors, but my own sources call it a stray arrow. I am sorry you had to learn of it like this." What a way to receive the news—overheard without warning, crowed over as a triumph by his enemies… Of course the boy was weeping. Of course he had stooped to foolishness and dishonorable attack in the wake of it.

"What reason in the world had you to creep into our camp?" he asked the boy. "Was the attempt on my life your aim all along, or did you only seize the opportunity?"

Laurent eyed him sideways but seemed to find no harm in answering. "My initial aim was only to gather information, perhaps engage in a spot of sabotage, if convenient. I am too small and useless for the battlefield," he said bitterly, "as my uncle made very clear to me when he found me putting on armor. But there are other ways to serve my country. Who better for a spy than the small and useless?"

Damen shook his head. "Spies are a necessity, I suppose, but I see no need for a prince to engage in such slinking about."

"If you are so upright and honest, tell me what trickery you plan for my brother, when he comes to negotiate my release."

"No trickery. My word on it," Damen said without hesitation. "Unlike your people, Akielos takes its honor seriously. We will harm none who come to us for parley."

"You expect me to trust your word," Prince Laurent said icily.

"Yes, I do!"

"Would you trust mine?"

"Give it and find out. Give me your parole," Damen said abruptly. "Your word as a prince of Vere to conduct yourself honorably as my prisoner. Give me your parole and I will untie you."

"Will you give me back my knife?"

Damen laughed. "I said I was honorable, not an idiot."

Laurent snorted hard, but after testing his ropes for a sulky moment, he said, "Very well. I give you my parole, Prince Damianos. I will seek neither violence nor escape. And what does that get me?"

"It gets you my promise to defend you and care for your needs, as I would any other under my care. And it gets you out of your ropes." A few sharp tugs had him untied, and Laurent rubbed at his wrists and shoulders.

"Of course, now if your brother fails to ransom you, you become my slave," Damen said.

Prince Laurent bared his teeth. "I'll be sure to honorably revoke my parole before I slit your throat."

Damen laughed. _Spirit,_ he thought again. _Little honor and less sense, but plenty of spirit._

 

There was quite a flurry of messages, including one written by Laurent's own hand confirming his identity and safety, before both sides agreed on where and when to meet for negotiations. Finally a flat place just east of the battlefield, open and visible from all directions and out of range of either side's archers, was decided upon. Damen and his father brought only a pair of guards each, in addition to Laurent himself, and permitted the same for Prince Auguste and whatever advisor he chose to bring—which turned out to be Prince Laurent the Elder, the late king's younger brother.

Laurent the Younger broke away from Damen several yards before it was proper to do so, rushing to throw himself into his brother's arms. Damen had to wave back a nearby soldier to keep him from pursuing the boy. Beside him, Damen's father made a sound of disapproval.

"I'm sorry, Auguste," Laurent cried in tearful Veretian, "I'm so sorry, I know I've mucked everything up—"

"You're not hurt, that's all that matters," Auguste said, hugging the boy tightly. "Everything else can be dealt with."

"But now you'll have to negotiate for me, you'll have to give up land, or—"

"Hush, let's not hand arrows to our enemies," Laurent's uncle said, his voice brisk but his hand gentle as he patted the boy's shoulder. "I'm sure at least some of them can understand you."

"Yes, Prince Damianos speaks Veretian," Laurent said, pointing at Damen.

"Much better than you speak Akielon, little one," Damen said cheerfully, in Veretian.

"We are not handing the boy over just yet," Theomedes growled, in Akielon. "Damianos, reclaim him."

Sighing at the necessity, Damen stepped forward and drew Laurent gently away from his brother. "You have seen he is safe and well. He must return to our camp now."

"Certainly not," the uncle said, Auguste bristling beside him.

"Certainly so," Theomedes said firmly, in awkward but sufficient Veretian. "Do not fear for him. He will be treated well, as befits his office."

"He has given me his parole," Damen said, which earned him a startled and not-entirely-pleased look from his father. "I am honor-bound to see to his care. He will be with my own trusted people at all times." He gestured one of his guards forward. "Take the prince to Lykaios. She will see to anything he needs."

For a moment it looked as if more serious measures might be necessary to separate the two brothers, but at length young Laurent, perhaps remembering his parole, squared his shoulders and let himself be led away.

The moment Laurent was out of earshot, Theomedes set his feet and opened negotiations with a single sentence in Akielon.

"If you wish to see your prince again, we will be taking Delpha in his stead."

Uproar followed, of course. Soon all four of them were talking over each other, Auguste and Theomedes shouting in each other's faces as Damen and Prince Laurent the Elder tried to call for reason and calm.

"I know the value of what we have," Theomedes snapped, finally cutting over the hubbub. "Or will you tell me your brother is not worth a few miles of land?"

"A moment," the uncle said, and pulled Auguste away, putting their guards between them and the Akielon delegation. Damen's father turned to him with hot complaints on his lips, but Damen shushed him, listening intently to Auguste and his uncle's low, hurried conversation in Veretian.

"—must not bow to a conqueror's demands," the uncle was saying. "You know Akielos will not be appeased. You will only be gifting them more strength to use against us later."

"What choice have we? You know I will not abandon Laurent!"

"Then you will abandon the loyal subjects of Delfeur, who have fought and sacrificed—"

"I know, but it is not as though Delfeur will be wiped from the map. They will live, as subjects of Akielos."

"You have been king less than an hour, you cannot afford to look as weak as this, you cannot afford for your first act as king to be a capitulation to Akielos!"

"I understand that, Uncle," Auguste said, his expression frantic, "but again I ask you, what choice do we have?"

"Father," Damen murmured, "we must make this an easier medicine for them to swallow. We risk a fight with a cornered beast, giving them impossible choices—"

"Oh, their choice is very possible, and very clear." Theomedes crossed his arms, radiating satisfaction. "We have them over a barrel, my son. There is no need for further negotiation; they will pay whatever price they must for the young prince. And for that I have you to thank! Capturing the lad was well done." He gripped Damen's shoulder affectionately.

His father was right in every way, of course, and Damen certainly did not regret Prince Laurent's capture; he had saved his own life and doubtless many others by doing so. Nor did he feel any regret in forcing a surrender from Vere. Victory in battle might have been preferable from the standpoint of honor and glory, but the ransom of prisoners of rank was no shameful practice.

Yet Damen, though he enjoyed hunting, always preferred a clean kill to watching his prey writhe and suffer in its defeat.

"Our brother of Vere," he called, which caused looks of surprise on all sides. Yes, it was a customary mode of address between royals, but not royals who were actively at war. "I assure you, we are here to negotiate, not simply dictate terms. We all want an end to this conflict."

That drew more startled glances still, and fairly enough, because Damen knew he had hardly been a voice for peace up until now. But he found he had his lost his heart for fighting, at least for today. All he could think about was Laurent crying for his dead father. "Enough people have suffered and died today," Damen said. "Let us have an end to war."

His father looked furious. "My son attempts to persuade you with lies," he said, "but I will honor you with the bald truth. Vere will never have an end of war. You are a tiny, weak-willed kingdom with no allies of any strength. Inevitably, you will be picked apart."

"All the faster, if we bow to you!" snapped Prince Laurent the Elder.

"But there is a way we might all win!" Damen spoke the idea even as it formed in his mind—which was ill-advised, perhaps, but he _had_ it, he had the solution. "Vere wants a strong ally. Akielos wants an ancestral land returned. Surely an alliance between us, with Delpha as the token exchanged..."

"And we are to merely trust that, having already received what you want, you will later exert yourself to defend us?" Prince Laurent the Elder's expression was nearly a sneer.

Prince Auguste was more polite, but equally firm. "Mere words will not do. We must have something measurable, tangible, something others will judge you by if you do not keep your promises."

"You dare!" Theomedes shouted. "You, a snake of Vere, dare to question our promises—You are already defeated, boy! The only question is how much face we allow you to save as you surrender."

"A marriage," Damen said. "A marriage between our houses, with Delpha as dowry. Vere saves face in its defeat, Akielos gains our land, we both gain an ally."

"There is no need," Theomedes said, "to saddle either of my sons with a Veretian consort. We already have what we want."

Prince Laurent the Elder was tapping his lip thoughtfully. "But consider, King Theomedes, the gain to your reputation. To win what you want through marriage—that is subtlety, cleverness, diplomacy. Akielos is well-known for its strength, none deny it, but you are also regarded as barbarian brutes. If you will allow me to honor you with bald truth." His smile was thin, sardonic.

To Damen's surprise, this seemed to strike Theomedes. His brows drew down in thought.

"It would be no ill thing," he murmured, almost to himself, "for Akielos to be known for more than her sword-arms. My late wife often said so." He cleared his throat. "What daughter, then, has the royal house of Vere to offer one of my sons?"

"Alas, no daughter," Auguste said, spreading his hands helplessly. "Nor niece nor even cousin. Only myself and my brother. And you have only sons as well, I believe?"

"Yes. Both unmarried, at least..."

"It will not do for Auguste to marry a son," the uncle said, apologetic. "As king he must have a wife to bear him children, heirs to the throne."

"It must be the younger son, then. Fair enough, as we have won him squarely already."

"Laurent is far too young to marry," Auguste said in some alarm.

Theomedes waved this off. "Some three or four years of betrothal are acceptable, so long as the dowry is delivered now."

"I will gladly accept Laurent's hand," Damen said, "when the time is appropriate," and for a moment he felt… light, happy, the same giddy excitement that came with a dive into unknown waters. Laurent seemed certain to grow into an exquisite young man, and his character was very promising, Damen could see them doing well together—

His father scowled at him in bewildered frustration. "You are full of mad pronouncements today, Damen. You cannot have a husband any more than Prince Auguste, and furthermore, Lady Jokaste would be quite surprised to hear you make offers to another!"

Jokaste. Of course. Perhaps he really was running mad, or at least fevered. There was no official understanding yet between Damen and Jokaste, but it would indeed be a shock to her and all the court if they did not wed after all the courtship he had paid her. What was wrong with him?

"It shall have to be my older son, Kastor," Theomedes said. "I assure you, he will make a fine husband for your young prince." He held out his hand to shake on the agreement.

_Kastor._ Auguste mouthed the word in silent dismay—or perhaps the word was _bastard._ Damen had almost forgotten how poorly-regarded bastards were in Vere. His blood heated at the thought that these men would dare look down their noses at his strong-hearted brother, for a circumstance of birth that had nothing to do with his character.

But despite the unhappy glance shared between Auguste and his uncle, despite Auguste's face falling briefly into the lines of a much older man's, he reached for the hand Theomedes extended, and shook on the agreement that would save his kingdom and ransom its captive prince.


	2. Chapter 2

_"Marriage?"_

Damen had not expected this to be delightful news to Laurent, but his expression of utter horror was surely excessive. Damen took a moment to jerk his head at Lykaios, with whom Laurent had been playing a board game, sending her and the guards out of the tent. "My brother is a man of courage and honesty, Laurent. He will be kind to you."

"But he is—he is old _,_ and Akielon, and a _bastard_ —"

"Laurent!" Auguste snapped.

"Are you so angry at me, brother?" Laurent looked on the verge of crumpling to the floor. "That you will sell me to the worst brute you can find for punishment?"

"You know that is not the way of it at all!" Auguste tried to reach for his brother, but Laurent evaded him and dashed out of the tent.

"Laurent—!" Damen glanced at Auguste, who looked near to tears; he waved Damen after his brother, doubtless thinking—and doubtless correct—that Laurent would only continue to flee from Auguste himself.

Damen caught up to the boy before long, pinning him to the side of another tent, as gently as he could without letting him escape. Laurent did not struggle, but turned his face away, gulping for air.

"My brother has sold me like a horse at auction." Laurent wiped a sleeve across his face.

"Your brother has done the only thing he could to save you," Damen said. "He could ransom you as an Akielon's husband, or abandon you as an Akielon's slave. Which would you prefer?"

Laurent did not answer.

"If you had not turned your hand to assassination in an enemy camp, you would not have put Auguste in this position," Damen said, and had the satisfaction of seeing the boy flinch.

It was short-lived, however; Laurent drew himself up, pushing Damen's hands off. "I saved Auguste, whether he likes to admit it or not. I only regret being caught."

 _Fair enough,_ Damen thought, but judged it inappropriate to say aloud. "Well, caught you were, and now you and all of Vere must suffer the consequences. If it’s true you have no regrets, then you must bear your punishment like a man."

Laurent set his jaw mulishly, an expression that made him look even further from manhood than he was.

"Come now, Laurent," Damen said, gentling his tone, "a political marriage has surely always been in your future, even if it has come sooner than you thought."

"I did not think to marry one of my father's murderers!" Laurent spat, and then, contradictorily, "Could it not have been you? You captured me, you have the better right." He did not look at Damen as he said it, which was perhaps best, considering the unexpected blush Damen felt at the words.

"No, it could not be me," Damen said. He debated mentioning that he had offered—but surely it was best to resign Laurent to his choice of husband with as little doubt as possible. "I must have a wife and sons. But Kastor is not a bad choice for you."

"No? Enlighten me on that."

"You called him old," Damen said, "and I suppose he must seem so to you now, twenty-seven to your thirteen." There were times he seemed old even to eighteen-year-old Damen. "But he is no doddering grandfather; he is in the very prime of his life, the perfect time to marry. You will be full young for it, yes, but a man grown nonetheless—you are not to wed until you are eighteen." A five-year betrothal had been hard for Theomedes to swallow, but Auguste had been adamant.

"Five years," Laurent murmured. This seemed to calm him somewhat. "I do not have to think of him for five years."

"As for his being a bastard," Damen continued, "I know such things are poorly-regarded in Vere, for whatever mad reason. But any fears you have about his character are groundless, I assure you."

"Are they?" Laurent sounded flatly dubious. "Tell me of him, then. What are his favored pursuits? What does he admire? What," he swallowed, "what will he expect from a spouse?"

How to describe Kastor? Right now it was his brother's flaws that were coming most to Damen's mind—his surly temper, his carelessness, his lack of respect for those he thought weak. "Kastor is a skilled and honorable warrior, a stalwart friend. He admires strength and cleverness."

Laurent perked up some bit at the mention of cleverness. "What does he study?"

"Study?"

"Yes," Laurent said impatiently. "What sort of books does he read? What tutors did he keep longest? What are his interests?"

"He has studied combat of all kinds with great dedication." Kastor had no interests of an academic sort, to Damen's knowledge. He would always rather be throwing himself into physical activity than reading a book—hunting or sparring, or laughing and fooling with his friends. "He is a man of humor," Damen offered. "He is playful and loves to amuse."

"An amiable barbarian, then, at least," Laurent muttered.

Auguste stepped into sight around the corner of the tent. "It sounds as though his character might be a healthy contrast to yours, Laurent," he said tentatively.  "You will complement each other."

Laurent, shoulders tense, permitted his brother to approach and put an arm around him. "And I am to live in Akielos with him, you said. But not until we are married, surely?"

"Yes," Damen said. "Until the marriage you will remain with your family." It had been Theomedes's turn to be adamant, on the matter of the couple's residence. It would be Vere, not Akielos, who gave up a son to the other's court. Damen wondered if it was his father's way of making it up to Kastor, this choosing of his spouse without consulting him.

This was no time to let any doubt show on his face, but Damen felt his heart quail a bit at that thought. He'd been concerned with Laurent's reaction, but how would _Kastor_ react to being handed a Veretian husband almost young enough to be his son?

"If Prince Kastor is such a valiant warrior," Laurent said, "why is he not here on the field?"

"My father would never risk himself and both his sons in battle; Kastor remains at home in case the worst should happen," Damen said. He gave Auguste a very deliberate look as he spoke, and saw the shaft hit home, Auguste flushing and looking away. _If your family had been as sensible as mine, Laurent would have been safe at home, and this would not have happened._

"So we are to marry sight unseen," Laurent was saying. "Complete strangers."

"You have five years to make each other's acquaintance. Some visits might be arranged, but failing all else, you may write each other." Damen crouched before Laurent, taking both his hands. "He will write to you, my word on it. I am certain you will learn to love each other." Kastor might be sulky about having a Veretian foisted on him, but at the end of the day he would mostly care that Laurent was attractive and not too much trouble.

This would all work out nicely in the end.

***

Kastor did not take well to the news.

"Boy, you are making a fool of yourself," Theomedes snapped after his oldest son had spent some time shouting about injustice and throwing dishes against the wall, sending slaves scurrying out of the room. "It's a shame you hadn't any more voice in the matter, but the boy will make you a perfectly good spouse. If you did not know you might be called upon to make a political match, then you've not been listening to our history all of your life!"

"A political match is one thing," Kastor said. "This sneaking, spineless Veretian whelp is another. You wish me to take a viper to my breast—one who will hate me for being a bastard, and do all he can to make me miserable!"

"Laurent is not spineless," Damen interjected, and Kastor turned on him with an accusatory finger.

"Marry him yourself, then, brother, if you like him so much!"

"Damen cannot marry a man, I should think that was obvious," Theomedes said impatiently.

"And have you not thought that I, too, might have rather had a wife?"

"You like men well enough!" Damen said, covering his own feelings of guilt. "Your harem is at least as many men as women—and not a few of them resemble Prince Laurent, slender and fair."

"But for children—"

"You may still have as many children as you wish," Theomedes said dismissively, "with mistresses and slaves and whomever. You can be certain, at least, of having no legitimate offspring to displace them. You of all men ought to appreciate that!" He clapped Kastor on the back with a laugh.

Kastor did not look amused. Damen winced.

"And the little prince may do likewise," Theomedes continued. "On that I will insist. He may be a Veretian brat and a fool, but I'll not see him confined to the marriage bed when his husband is not. All shall be fair, with neither of you given cause to complain."

"Not only shall I be saddled with a Veretian, but cuckolded by one? Is he to fill all of Akielos with little Veretian half-breeds?"

"Oh, I doubt that," Theomedes said. "Vere has such a horror of bastards, they train all their sons to prefer their own sex from the time they can walk. It's a wonder they ever know what to do with a wife when they get one. And it's just as well, really—the new king wouldn't like to have his brother's half-Akielon byblows in the running for his crown, I'm sure."

Kastor's frown turned less thunderous and more pensive at this. "I hadn't thought of that. So long as King Auguste remains childless, young Laurent is actually quite close in the succession."

"There, you see, I have gotten you a spouse who is prestigious and important, next in line to a throne! You may thank me whenever you're ready."

"That is all very well, but I'll be bedding his person, not his importance. What does this whelp even look like? Is he pleasing to the eye?"

"For a young boy, yes," Theomedes shrugged. "It's always hard to say how someone will turn out. But his brother is a handsome man, and there's quite a resemblance. I'd say the signs are good."

"He's slender and fair, as I said," Damen added. "Blond hair, blue eyes, very fine features. And he has a way about him, thoughtful and elegant." _When he wasn't weeping or trying to stab me._ "I think the signs are more than good."

"He sounds like more your type than mine, Damen," Kastor said, "but it could be worse. He is not cross-eyed or hare-lipped, at least."

Damen was relieved by this hint of acquiescence. "Laurent is very keen for this marriage to be a happy one," he said. "He would like to exchange letters with you, Kastor, that you both may get to know each other. I told him I was certain you'd find it a first rate idea."

Kastor laughed. "Exchange love letters with a half-grown pup? What kind of deviant do you take me for?"

"I didn't mean _that_ sort of letter!"

"Oh, you are too easy to tease, brother. I suppose a few letters would be no bad thing. Win him over now and that will make everything easier later."

Damen smiled and gripped his brother's arm affectionately. "I knew you'd come around. Laurent's a sweet boy, you'll see."

Kastor smiled back. "I'm sure I will."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for the Regent being his loathsome self in this chapter.

Laurent received the first letters within a month of returning home—one from Prince Damianos and one from his future husband, Prince Kastor.

He took them—two sealed papers and a box tied with twine—to a little hideaway he'd adopted in the gardens, a sturdy wooden swing half-forgotten behind a trellis. He felt more secure there than in his own rooms, where anyone—servants, his uncle, his brother—felt free to come and impose on him at any time.

He'd never thought of his brother as imposing on him before. Things felt different between them now. Laurent knew it was mostly his own doing, and he hated it and grieved it and cried over it, but it couldn't be undone.

Auguste had sold him to Akielos.

And now Auguste himself was being sold, or at least was asking the hand of a Patran princess. Auguste would soon have a wife and queen, and then children, and very little need for a pest of a brother who had cost them Delfeur.

Laurent tried to put these thoughts aside and concentrate on his letters. He opened the longest of them first, thinking that would be Kastor's—but it was from Damianos, and opened with him inviting Laurent to call him Damen, since he was going to be part of the family. From there it went to a description of the palace at Ios where the family lived—where Laurent would one day live. It sounded hot and very foreign, but clearly Damen loved it, and perhaps it really would be beautiful. He had to hope so.

Damen ended the letter with an encouragement to write him back and a question about Laurent's studies that he actually did want to answer, especially since it would give him a chance to correct the barbarian's Veretian grammar.

The letter from Kastor was in Akielon, he realized with dismay as he opened it. Well, he would have to vastly improve his mastery of Akielon, if he were to live there; he might as well start now.

It took him some time to parse his way through the letter, so he supposed he ought to have been glad it was short. But it said so little, really, and what it did say was… irritating.

_To my darling Laurent_ , it began, and that alone was enough to raise his hackles. He was no man's darling, least of all this Akielon stranger.

_I hope I find you in good health and wise behavior._ Perhaps that was some traditional Akielon expression, but Laurent found he did not care to have his behavior questioned by a man who had no knowledge of it or of him.

_This alliance between our countries is an excellent development for all—_ that much Laurent felt forced to agree with— _therefore I am thrilled beyond words by the news of our future union. I can only hope you are likewise delighted, my dearest lamb._

He was not delighted. Delight was not so much as a spark on the horizon. And if the man ever called him 'lamb' again, he would not be responsible for his next actions.

_I am told only the best things about your wit, elegance, and beauty; I am sure when the day comes I will find myself in agreement, and able to praise them in terms that would not be appropriate for your tender ears now._ Well, that was an… utterly horrifying sentiment.

_I send you a gift, the first token of our love; they are jewels given to my mother by my father before I was born. Wear them and think of me. Yours in affection, Kastor._

Laurent opened the box. Inside lay a full set of jewels—necklace, earrings, and bracelets, all of great faceted rubies and pearls set in gold. They were very grand. They were also huge and heavy and as subtle as a club to the head. The earrings would pull his lobes to the ground, the bracelets would surely take as much strength to lift as a sword, and the necklace, thick and short, bore a disconcerting resemblance to a slave's collar. Laurent would sooner ride naked through all of Arles than wear these jewels.

Kastor, he noted, had told him nothing at all about himself, had offered no plans for a visit, had asked no questions about Laurent. He had condescended to reassure him that he, Kastor, found Laurent acceptable, and that was it. The endearments and expressions of delight rang as hollow as a starving belly. At best Kastor was all extravagance, and nothing beneath.

Laurent restrained himself from dumping the jewels into the dirt beneath the wooden swing. No doubt Auguste would want them added to the coffers, if nothing else; Vere was not so rich a nation, after the war. He packed the jewels back into their box, threw _that_ down into the dirt, and went back to read Damen's letter again.

***

_I miss my brother more than either of my parents_. Laurent carved more than wrote the words, the slow and painstaking drag of his quill loud in the silent chamber. _Sometimes even when he is still here_.

He might not send the letter; this was too bare a thing to say to anyone. But after months of letters—some easy and humorous, some surprisingly solemn, all of them warm and real like few things were in the court of Vere—somehow Laurent could come closer to saying it to Damen than anyone else. Damen, so far away and seen only once, someone on whom he had only the most tenuous claim of connection, someone he'd once tried to murder and wouldn't have mourned if he'd succeeded—but perhaps that was part of the appeal. If he lost Damen's good opinion, it would have little effect on his life. Though he did not wish to lose it.

_Currently, Auguste is in Patras_ , Laurent wrote. _He left three days ago, to meet his betrothed bride, Princess Tuvah._ And quite nervous he had been about the prospect. He'd had neither portrait nor direct communication from Tuvah, only her father's word that she was fair, clever and sweet-tempered. Auguste was too trusting, sometimes, but he was not fool enough to sign the final contract without testing those assertions for himself.

_No, it is only I who am expected to marry a stranger with no assurance that we are compatible in any way._

At least Kastor had not insulted him with further letters, only a few meaningless postscripts to Damen's. Laurent had not reciprocated. He avoided even mentioning Kastor in his letters to Damen.

The door to Laurent's chamber swung open, and in stepped his uncle, richly dressed for the throne room where he had been carrying out Auguste's duties in his absence. "Ah, nephew, I thought I would find you here. You spend too much time cooped up indoors."

"We all have our duties to perform." Laurent held up the letter, too briefly for his uncle to read it. "Writing letters to Akielon barbarians being one of mine."

"Ah, marriage talk on all sides of us, then." His uncle pulled a chair up to Laurent's writing desk, his knee bumping Laurent's as he sat down.

"Enough of it to choke on," Laurent said, folding the unfinished letter and pushing it sharply away.

Uncle cocked his head at Laurent, his expression kindly and almost teasing. "You are jealous of your brother's attention, don't think you've hidden it from me. But Vere must have a queen, and when she comes she must be welcomed. It will be Auguste's solemn duty to be loyal to his wife before all others, even you and I."

Laurent swallowed, trying to crush down the tiny panicked animal in his chest, the one that hated Tuvah already, and Auguste too for choosing her, for choosing anyone.

"Does anyone marry by choice," he said, "or is everyone stampeded into it? _You_ escaped."

"It was never necessary me to marry; my brother's side was where I was most needed, and I wanted nothing to interfere with that." Uncle's face fell, eyes going distant in the awkward moment of sadness that dropped into any conversation where the late king was mentioned.

"Am I not needed at my brother's side?" Laurent said desperately. "Doesn't Auguste need me as much as our father needed you?" _As much as I need him?_

"We all have different paths to follow," Laurent's uncle said gravely, resting a hand on Laurent's shoulder. "Yours leads to Akielos."

"It didn't have to. _You_ would have fought," Laurent said, bitter and unfair and knowing it, unable to stop. "You didn't want Auguste to surrender, you wouldn't have sold me in disgrace to my father's killers, you would have _fought_ to reclaim me—"

"Of course I would have," his uncle said softly. "But it's not my place to question my king's decisions, whatever my opinion of them. Come now, perhaps it will not be so bad for you, to have a husband of your own—"

"But I don't want him!" Laurent felt himself beginning to cry and tried to swallow his mortification. Uncle was the closest thing he had to a parent, now, surely he could come to him for comfort?

"Well, you shall have him whether you want him or not," Uncle said, voice gentle as he pulled Laurent into his lap, as his mother had done when Laurent was small. "Better to make the best of it, don't you think? Trust me, Laurent, if you can win his affection, you will be very well set up in life."

Laurent thought of Prince Kastor, so much older, so foreign, with nothing in common with Laurent that he had yet discovered. "And how am I to win his affection?"

His uncle's voice went strange then, low and husky, and his arms tightened around Laurent in his lap. "Let me show you."


	4. Chapter 4

Auguste and Tuvah's wedding took place two weeks after Laurent's fifteenth birthday.

The betrothal had dragged on longer than either party preferred, as Auguste frequently complained; once he actually met the girl, Auguste could not marry her fast enough.

"Oh, little brother, she is everything her father said and more," Auguste had said upon his return from his first visit to the princess. Tired and tipsy and perhaps drunk on new love, it had been impossible to shut him up on the topic. "She has the smile of an angel, and the voice of a songbird, and her hair is the color of sunset on gold, and she has the most adorable freckles—I cannot wait for you to meet her!"

What did Kastor look like? Laurent wondered. Did he look like Damen? Older… bigger? Surely no human being could be _much_ bigger.

In any case they did have to wait for Laurent to meet her, because it was over a year before things were settled enough that her father permitted her to travel to Vere, in the company of her mother and a hundred other servants and companions. Some of which—not the mother but a few of the attendants, people who had the ear of both queen and princess—spent a great deal more time with Laurent's uncle than he would have liked.

Laurent himself spent a great deal more time with his uncle than he would have liked.

It was not so bad most of the time. His uncle didn't mean to hurt him, always apologized and made sure he had the proper care if he was hurt. It was not so bad to make Uncle happy, and be petted and held and loved. How could it feel bad to be loved?

But the physician, Paschal, looked at Laurent sometimes as sadly as he would look into a coffin, and did not seem surprised that Laurent so often threw up when he wasn't ill, or scratched himself with his nails until he bled, even though Laurent himself had no idea why he did these things.

"He holds my brother's life in his hands," Paschal said once to Laurent. "My own life I could risk, but what can I do when it is someone else's?"

Laurent hadn't been sure what he meant, and only told him he was already doing everything he should, by stopping the bleeding.

Tuvah visited only the once, and Laurent hated her presence and all the chaos it brought, but hated even more the occasions when Auguste went to Patras instead, leaving Laurent alone.

Tuvah herself he found impossible to hate, at least outside the private darkness of his own selfish heart; she was so sweet and sunny that he could not be half as rude to her as he would have liked.

Rude enough, though, to draw Auguste's censure.

"You act as though she had kicked your best dog, when she has never been anything less than kind and polite to you! Do you have any notion of how much that hurts her?"

"No," Laurent had said. "I assure you I've never given her feelings the slightest thought."

Auguste had just shaken his head sadly. "You know, you can be a right bastard when you put your mind to it."

Auguste was right about that, as he was about most things. Laurent was a selfish hateful bastard who deserved nothing better than marriage to some brute of an Akielon, and whatever love he could get from his uncle. That was becoming clear to everyone, Laurent could tell from the way people stepped carefully around him now, and whispered behind his back.

 

Laurent might be unpleasant company these days, but he wasn't going to spoil Auguste's wedding, and nothing else would, either, unless they wanted to tangle with Laurent. So he was faultlessly polite to Tuvah and her parents when they arrived, and all the guests from all over Vere, and from Patras and Kempt and Vask, and—

And Akielos, of course.

"Sending the bastard son as their representative for such a high occasion," seethed his uncle when they got word that Prince Kastor would arrive the next day. "You see the kind of respect they hold us in. But I admit it's an excellent thing that you'll finally be permitted to meet him. When he arrives, you must be at your best—sweet and sparkling as I know you can be—and win him over. Get your hooks in quickly."

"Just be yourself," was Auguste's advice. "That is… a best-behavior version of yourself? You wouldn't want to start off on the wrong foot. But you have plenty to recommend you, Laurent, if you can keep that sharp tongue of yours gentled for a few days."

"Yes, I'm sure you're right and he would prefer me silent and decorative."

"I said gentled, not silenced!" Auguste gave him an exasperated look that then melted into fondness, an uncommon enough occurrence these days that Laurent did not even mind when Auguste ruffled his hair. "Do you know, I take it back. Give him every barb and sharpened edge you have, and if he cannot handle it, perhaps he'll go into a huff about it and we can forget the whole betrothal."

A pretty fantasy, that, but they both knew it would not do. If Laurent offended Kastor into refusing the marriage, it would almost certainly mean war.

So Laurent dressed himself—or let himself be dressed; he could never manage so many laces alone—in white silk and velvet of midnight blue, with a cape on his shoulders and a circlet in his hair, only a shade less formal than he would be at the wedding itself, and practiced a dignified but welcoming expression in the mirror, and went to receive his betrothed.

 

As usual for an event this formal, official introductions would take place at a grand pavilion on the palace grounds. Laurent and Auguste waited, sweating in the full sun, for the Akielon delegation to arrive, brought by carriage from the chalet where they had been refreshed themselves after their long journey. Thinking of that, Laurent supposed the delegation had actually been in Vere for days, and on the palace grounds for hours. He felt suddenly ambushed, as if Kastor had crept up behind him when he wasn't looking.

But then the carriage was there, and men leaving it to mount the pavilion steps, all dressed in the flimsy scraps of cloth Akielons called clothing. Laurent clasped his hands together to keep from shaking.

The men—and women; they traveled together?—formed by apparent instinct into a triangular shape as they climbed the steps, those of lower status falling behind the two men in the lead. Surely one of them was Prince Kastor? Laurent's eyes darted from one man, tall and bearded and bull-faced, to the other, even taller and smiling—

"Damen!"

The word burst from Laurent's mouth in pure surprise, leaving a wide smile behind as it went, and his legs carried him forward a few steps before he could rein them back in. It was terribly presumptuous and rude for him to leave his place—

Damen dashed ahead of his party with an answering smile and reached out to grab the hands Laurent had instinctively lifted toward him. For a moment Laurent thought he would even embrace him, but he seemed to realize that would be too exuberant for propriety, and simply squeezed Laurent's hands vigorously.

"Laurent, look at you! I swear you've grown six inches!"

"I didn't know you were coming!"

"It was decided at the last minute. I hope—" He cleared his throat, turning to Auguste with the slight bow that was proper between a prince and a king. "I hope an extra guest is not inconvenient?"

"Not at all!" Apparently giving up on a truly formal reception, Auguste left his own place to grip Damen's arm in welcome. "We are pleased to have you. And your brother…?"

"Yes!" Damen turned and drew forward the bearded man, who did not look amused at having been so nearly left out of things. "Your Majesty, Your Highness, allow me to present my brother, Prince Kastor."

Kastor was not as handsome as his brother, but perhaps that had been too much to hope for. He was not especially _ill_ -favored, only more square and coarse-looking. Beards, Laurent had heard, were more common in Akielos; in Vere his uncle was one of the few to sport one, and it did not dispose Laurent to think kindly of them, but that was not Kastor's fault. Kastor looked clean and well-kept, at least, and his chiton was richly decorated with red and gold, showing respect to the occasion. Laurent could not help cringing, thinking of their clumsy and infrequent letters, which had done nothing to endear the man to him—but perhaps he was only awkward when writing, and might be perfectly charming in person.

"Laurent, I am delighted to meet you at last," Kastor said in heavily accented Veretian, and bent—to kiss him, Laurent realized in horror, far too late to avoid it. He couldn't stop himself from trying, though, and so the kiss landed on only the corner of his mouth as he flinched away.

There was a moment of ghastly silence as everyone present tried to decide how to react to Laurent's blatant rejection of his betrothed's kiss. Laurent did not move, could think of nowhere safe to look.

"I beg your pardon," Kastor said. "I did not mean to be rude. I had thought you were not a child anymore, but I suppose I was wrong."

Fifteen was not a child. Fifteen was old enough to face this with dignity—gods knew he'd endured more than kisses. Now he'd embarrassed himself and shamed his brother.

_But I don't want him to touch me,_ wailed a tiny childish voice inside him, one he was usually better at ignoring. _I don't want anyone to touch me ever again._

"You took me by surprise, that's all, my—" Laurent faltered. My lord? My dear? "—brother of Akielos. Pray forgive me."

"Nothing to forgive," Damen said airily, clapping his brother on the shoulder. "Come now, Kastor, I told you the boy was shy."

"Of course." Kastor made an effort to smile over his visible disgruntlement. "No offense taken."

"Perhaps we should return to the proprieties." Auguste's voice and demeanor were perfectly pleasant, but he tucked his arm into Laurent's, drawing him subtly away from the Akielons and almost literally under his own wing. "We do, of course, have a gift for Akielos…"

Returning to the formalities turned out to be the right move; the ceremonial exchange of gifts went smoothly, Akielos receiving their fine fabrics and wines with evident delight, and presenting in turn casks of olive oil and preserved fruit.

"The bearers are, of course, part of the gift," Damen said, gesturing to the three men and three women carrying the casks. They were all young and pretty—and wearing golden slave collars.

Laurent's stomach turned. He looked to Auguste in alarm.

Auguste touched Laurent's wrist, meeting his eyes for a single, reassuring moment. "A handsome gift! Akielon slaves are prized the world over for their exceptional service. I assure you they will be valued and well cared for here."

"May they serve you well," Damen said, and to Laurent it seemed some small part of him had relaxed at Auguste's words. Barbarian enough to keep slaves, but kind enough to care how they were treated. Was that the Akielon version of being a good man?

Kastor, Laurent noted, had already turned to follow their escort away from the reception pavilion, without reacting to the discussion of the slaves.

***

While there were other, equally high-ranking dignitaries in attendance, Damen understood that Veretian etiquette demanded the Akielons, as the most recently arrived, be seated at King Auguste's table tonight. On the king's right was his soon-to-be bride, with Damen next to her. On his left, young Prince Laurent and Kastor, followed by the uncle, Prince Laurent the Elder.

"We're honored you could attend the wedding, Prince Damianos," said Princess Tuvah, once they were properly introduced. "I know that Auguste values the peace and friendliness between Vere and Akielos very highly."

_Highly enough to trade his brother for it,_ Damen thought—but it was well worth the trade. Already Akielos had helped Vere repel a Vaskian incursion on its eastern flank, and routine spycraft had shown Akielon trade helping to repair the economic damage of the recent war faster than anyone anticipated. "The honor is mine," Damen said, bowing over her hand, "in being permitted to witness the happy event. I know little of Veretian wedding customs, or Patran—what can I expect from the ceremony?"

Princess Tuvah beamed, happily beginning an explanation. She was quite pretty in a wholesome, hearty kind of way, with round freckled cheeks and curly strawberry-blonde hair that seemed determined to escape its elaborate braids, surrounding her head in a halo of errant strands. Tuvah had been considered as a marriage prospect for Damen himself, not very long ago, but his father had given up the idea without complaint when Damen fell for the Lady Jokaste instead. There were benefits to a foreign marriage alliance, but there were also benefits to choosing a queen from among one's own people—and in truth Theomedes was an indulgent father.

Tuvah touched Auguste's arm, getting his attention to clarify some point, and they spent a brief moment gazing into each other's eyes and giggling. It was lucky all around, Damen thought, that his father's idea had gone nowhere; clearly Tuvah and the young king of Vere were mad about each other, and Damen was happy to have his clever and clear-headed Jokaste.

Laurent, across from Damen at the table, had also noticed the moment of dreamy affection between the betrothed couple. He seemed less amused by it than Damen, his face expressionless, gaze flicking away from them as if the sight were painful. Jealous, or so Damen had gathered from his letters; half his heart rejoicing in his brother's happiness, the other half mourning the loss of even more of Auguste's attention and time than the crown had already stolen.

Kastor was watching Laurent, too, as well he might be. Despite the rocky introduction, he didn't seem displeased with what he saw. Really, it was hard to imagine being displeased with Laurent's appearance; if he'd been promising at 13, he was downright startling at 15. He was _distractingly_ beautiful, drawing Damen's eye throughout the feasting any time he didn't make a point of looking elsewhere. At first Damen was even a little disturbed at himself for it, but found to his relief that whatever Laurent's effect on his concentration, he was having none at all on Damen's—well, anything else. The boy was an aesthetic marvel, and no doubt his age-mates were losing their minds over him, but he definitely still looked fifteen—if not younger. Perhaps it was having a son of his own that made it so easy to see the little boy inside Laurent's statue-perfect face.

"The last letter I had from you, Damen, your lady wife was expecting delivery any time," Laurent said, as if he'd heard Damen's thoughts. "I hope you didn't leave her in that state?"

"Oh, no!" Damen said. "No, she was safely delivered of a son over a month ago now. I did send a letter, though I'm not surprised to find I outpaced it—I was shamefully late getting it written. Parenthood is quite the distraction."

"Damen makes a fool of himself over the babe," Kastor said fondly. "But of course he's proud of him—quite the little bruiser, not a bit less than nine pounds at birth."

"They tell me he's a large baby," Damen said, "but he looks so tiny to me."

"And bald," Kastor added.

"That's truth. I've taken to calling him Egg," Damen said, "much to my wife's displeasure. His name is Egerius, after my mother Egeria." He realized he was gazing down into his own cupped hand, where his son's little head fit so easily, and flushed.

"You miss him," Laurent said, his smile one part teasing to one part touched. Damen was surprised; what did a young boy care about talk of babies?

"Him and his mother both," Damen admitted. "I'm sure I will hardly know him by the time I get back again, babes grow so quickly."

"And who knows, perhaps your wife will have forgot you as well," Kastor said, and Damen cuffed him across the head, not finding the joke very funny, for all that it got a general laugh from the table.

"Well, I hope we can distract you from your sorrows, Damianos," said Auguste. "As you can see, the evening's entertainments are about to begin!"

Damen had heard a great deal about Veretian entertainments. The opinion in the court of Akielos was that Vere was shamelessly oversexed and hedonistic, but Damen had always privately taken the sensational rumors with a grain of salt.

If anything, he soon concluded, the rumors had not done them justice.

The first dance was fairly harmless—risque enough to have Damen's face warming, but he'd seen similar dances at Akielon revels. Seeing it in mixed company at an elevated official function made for a different experience, but still, it was only a dancer, arching and twisting and shimmying on a stage.

The following _pair_ of dancers, arching and twisting and shimmying _together,_ was a new level of licentiousness. Damen, glancing around the room in embarassment, found most of his fellow Akielons watching in various degrees of fascination, ranging from mortification to lewd delight. Kastor was cheering the dancers on without a trace of shame.

Princess Tuvah's cheeks had gone quite red, and Auguste seemed to be gently teasing her; she swatted him with her fan and kept her eyes on her plate. It seemed to be in good fun, though, Tuvah laughing as she swatted, and Auguste covering her ears when the sounds from the stage became unmistakably vulgar, for all that both dancers' costumes were still intact. Damen supposed Tuvah would probably have to get used to such things, if she were to be Queen of Vere.

More appalling, in his opinion, was that no one had sent Laurent out of the room.

Not that the young prince seemed to care. He had taken as little notice of the dancers as if they were a choir of virgin maids, sipping his drink with his gaze distant and unconcerned. That was worse, somehow. What else had he grown used to, in his young life?

Laurent's uncle had noticed Damen's concern; he rolled his eyes and shrugged, clearly not fond of the dancing himself but indulgent of it. Well, perhaps he had to be—the uncle of the king did not likely have the clout to change longstanding tradition and culture—but it was reassuring to know that not everyone in Vere was a pervert.

The two dancers finished—so to speak—and left the stage to a loud chorus of appreciation. Damen hoped perhaps that was the climax—so to speak—of the evening. The next entertainment was an entire group of people, after all, a dozen or more, and surely…

No, he realized with dismay, there were no certainties in Vere. Perhaps no boundaries, either.

"Come, brother, don't be such a prude," Kastor called, laughing, when the dozen dancers on stage began to glide senuously in and out of each other's arms.

"I am hardly a prude," Damen said. "I doubt all the lovers I've had would fit on that stage. But I've had them _privately."_

"Not as privately as you might think," Kastor said, "speaking as the man in the next bedroom over."

Damen glared at him—but events were not done deteriorating. While the music continued, all heavy drums and high exotic piping, the dancers were leaving the stage and focusing their performances on individuals in the crowd. Damen watched in horror as a lovely young woman danced her way over to Auguste and Tuvah and began focusing her efforts on the princess, who gasped and blushed and giggled but, with her betrothed's encouragement, accepted the dancer's affectionate attentions. Another dancer ruffled Laurent's hair teasingly on his way past, and actually won an exasperated smile from the boy.

Distracted by this by-play, Damen did not notice the beautiful red-haired dancer approaching him until the young man climbed into his lap.

With difficulty, he suppressed his first instinct, which was to shove the dancer sharply away. That would probably be rude. Instead he took hold of the young man's arms, preventing him from sliding any closer, and made every effort to look pleased—smiling, bobbing his head to the music—as he got to his feet, forcing the dancer to stand as well. He was not quite the only person leaving his seat to dance; he could only hope that would give him plausibility. He shared a few awkward, half-hearted dancing motions with the red-haired man, then managed to shoo him onward to his next victim, looking confused and disgruntled.

He had barely turned around before another dancer was attempting to take his place. Cursing, Damen ducked the man's arms and sat, scooting his chair so far under the table that his lap could not be accessed.

"Come here, love, _I'll_ appreciate you," Kastor said, and with a graceful motion that might have been a shrug, the dancer allowed the transfer.

Laurent, Damen saw with mortified irritation, was laughing at him from across the table.

The song ended at last, the dancers flowing out of the room in a wave of silks and hot skin. Damen wiped his forehead with his wrist, hoping it was over and they'd be permitted to go off to bed soon.

"Poor barbarian," Laurent said, "you don't enjoy the skill and beauty involved in our Veretian traditions?"

"The skill and beauty is beyond debate," Damen said. "Only their appropriateness is in question."

"Well, there is only one more dance," Laurent said in tones of comfort, but the wicked sparkle in his eyes made Damen more nervous, not less.

He was right to be uneasy. The fourth and final performance involved two pairs of dancers whose motions went beyond suggestive, to the actual removal of all clothing and the full insertion of parts. A fifth performer stood between the pairs, giving an enthusiastic recitation of erotic poetry that made Damen long to flee the room—and then looked Damen in the eye and invited him to come up on stage to join in.

"What? No!" Damen said in graceless shock.

Heads turned all around him, Veretian expressions of offended surprise.

"It's quite an honor to be invited to join the performance," murmured the elder Prince Laurent from across the table, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

_I would rather die._ "I'm married," Damen blurted. Surely that was the one excuse they could understand, these folk whose concern for the propriety of the marriage bed was so intense. "I'm married," he said again, louder and turning to face the poem-reciter. "My wife would not permit it."

"Where is your wife?" the performer said slyly, gesturing around the room. "She is welcome to join us, too."

"No, she's in Akielos—"

"Then how can she dislike what she knows nothing of?"

Damen looked to King Auguste for help, but he was distracted; a grim-faced advisor had approached and was murmuring in his ear. Princess Tuvah gave Damen a sympathetic grimace, but clearly didn't feel comfortable intervening.

"We have a royal audience tonight," the performer said, the two couples behind him still going at it with gusto, "and they deserve royal entertainment! Prince of Akielos, will you not honor this grand assembly with your magnificence?"

Silence spread slowly from Damen, its center, as he frantically cast about for some way to get out of this without causing terrible offense.

"There is another Prince of Akielos here," Laurent said, his piping boy's voice carrying a jaded boredom far beyond his years, "and I am not so jealous a mate as Princess Jokaste. Kastor, darling, perhaps you would honor us with a performance?"

Damen glanced uneasily at his brother. Surely he wouldn't want to do this either—

But Kastor was already rising from his seat, grinning and ostentatiously adjusting his clothes. "Far be it from me to leave an audience unsatisfied!" He turned to Laurent and bowed graciously over his betrothed's hand before climbing onto the stage.

The performer who had invited Damen looked taken aback for a moment, but covered it smoothly—more smoothly than Damen did, probably. It had just occurred to him, as Kastor swept the other man into his arms, that he would now have to watch his _brother_ have sex in public.

And so would Laurent.

Damen was desperate for something, anything else to look at but the stage—his plate, his drink, his knees, the other people at the table—no, that was equally unbearable—but Laurent kept his eyes on the show. Damen watched Laurent out of the corner of his eye. Would the boy be jealous, despite what he said, to watch his betrothed with another? Would he be fascinated, aroused, curious for this glimpse of his own future?

Laurent's face remained largely impassive. The only hint of his feelings was a brief curl of disgust to his lip before he buried it in a drink and turned his gaze away.


	5. Chapter 5

Laurent was a touch young to be an attendant at the Bathing of the Groom, but Auguste insisted.

"If I have to have two cousins there that I've hardly spoken to in their lives, and foreign princes and noblemen's sons that I've _literally_ never spoken to in their lives, I am certainly going to have my own brother there as well," he'd said, and refused to hear any argument.

So Laurent, who wasn't very enthused himself about bathing with cousins and princes and dignitaries that he didn't know, nevertheless would not have let anything in the world keep him away from his brother's side.

The bath was already crowded when he arrived, naked young men gathered around Auguste and laughing as they rubbed soap into his hair and teased him about his upcoming wedding night.

"I mean, if you're not up to it, I could be persuaded to stand in for you," said Romain, second son of Guion of Fortaine, one of the few attendants Auguste considered a friend. "She'd probably like that better anyway, right? I mean…" Grinning, he raised his hands, showcasing his own skinny and unimpressive chest. Romain was more of a scholar than an athlete.

More bawdy jokes followed, Tuvah's mortified brother shooting down the worst of them and splashing the offenders in the face, while Laurent folded his clothes and slipped down the marble steps into the water.

"What's this, a bed boy? I love Vere!" cried some young noble from Patras.

The man beside the noble shoved him, nearly knocking him into the water. "That's Prince Laurent, you imbecile." It was Damen, Laurent realized, with a spark of relief. He should have realized Damen would be here. But if Damen, then Kastor—

But no, a quick glance did not show Kastor among the attendants. There was another relief.

"Laurent, come scrub your brother's ass, none of us want to do it," Damen called, laughing.

"Ha," Auguste said, "I should make you all fight for the privilege!"

Laurent tried to smile and join in the merriment. The other men kept glancing at him, openly amused by his insubstantial figure. Or worse, intrigued by it, but there weren't many of those here.

Tuvah's brother whistled for someone to bring rinsing pails, and Laurent was startled to recognize the servant who responded as one of the Akielon slaves, a dark-skinned boy who leaped gracefully to do what he was told. Laurent would be asking Auguste about _that._

"Right then, as one of the few in this gathering of knuckleheads who has actually caught and kept a wife," Damen said as Laurent helped upend a rinsing pail over Auguste's head, "it is my solemn duty to advise you about your wedding night, Your Majesty."

"Oh, I've had as much advice as I can stomach!"

"From who, this crowd of little boys? These clowns who know more about paying a woman than pleasing her?"

The joke garnered more shocked gasps than laughter, at least from the Veretians in the room. Damen froze, unsure what he'd done wrong.

Laurent cleared his throat. "I'm sure Prince Damianos does not mean to imply that anyone here would break the laws and holiest traditions of Vere by having intimacy with a woman outside of wedlock."

"Oh!" Damen said. "Right. Of course not. I was, of course, referring to, uh, paying your laundresses, weavers, dancers and cooks. I'm sure that's the only feminine interaction most of you louts have had."

"That and being scolded by their mothers," Auguste said, wiping water from his eyes after another rinsing. He gave Laurent a grateful glance.

"Conveniently, of course, the prince's wife is not here to vouch for any of his advice," Romain pointed out.

"If she were, we'd have to put our clothes back on, and that wouldn't be much of a bath, would it?" Damen said. "All I want to say, Auguste, is that when it comes to pleasing a woman—"

Tuvah's brother, standing next to Laurent, covered his ears and started shouting that he didn't want to know a single thing about how Auguste planned to please his sister, so Laurent missed most of what Damen had to say. Damen raised his voice for the finish, however, shouting over the Patran prince's nonsense.

"—and if all else fails, _ask her what she wants you to do!"_

"A novel concept," Auguste said, slapping Damen companionably on the arm. "I'll remember that."

Shortly afterward, it was time for the "solitary contemplation" part of the ritual bath. Reluctantly, the attendants climbed out of the water, mostly into the waiting arms of servants who dried and dressed them before they left. Damen's dripping physique, as he rose from the water, was… distracting. Laurent made himself look away before Damen could notice him staring.

Auguste caught Laurent's eye as he was drying off and gestured for him to stay. An opportunity to speak to his brother alone was not to be squandered; Laurent wrapped himself in his towel and waited for the others to file out.

Damen was one of the last to go, bending to shake Auguste's shoulder in friendly farewell.

"Give my regards to your brother," Auguste said. "It's a shame he couldn't make it."

Damen's smile chilled a bit. "It was my impression he wasn't invited."

From Auguste's expression, Laurent immediately deduced that he hadn't been, and the remark had been intended as a polite fiction to help Kastor save face.

"I suppose no respectable Veretian would put his body in the same water with a bastard," Damen continued, which once again was entirely correct.

Auguste was about to say something ill-advised, Laurent could tell—either hot and annoyed, or worse, something apologetic that acknowledged the insult.

"I asked Auguste not to invite him," Laurent said.

Auguste closed his mouth.

"It was just… too awkward." Laurent fidgeted, making a show of shyness. "I want to be a grown man before he sees me… like this."

Damen's hackles settled immediately. "Of course. I didn't realize. I'll make sure he understands." He took Laurent's hand and bowed over it, a brief and polite and unexpected gesture; turned and bowed to Auguste as well. "I'll leave you to your wedding preparations."

 

 

"Do you always avert so many disasters in a day," Auguste said as Laurent dropped his towel and returned to the water beside him, "and I simply don't notice?"

Laurent permitted himself a small smile. "The past few days have been… a special occasion."

Auguste made an expression; overwhelmed agreement and dismay. "Remind me to thank you, if we make it out of this wedding without starting a war."

They soaked in silence for a time, and Laurent wondered if Auguste had wanted to speak to him about anything, or simply wanted his company. He was fine with either one.

But he did have something to say, himself, when one of the Akielon slaves brought them drinks to alleviate the heat of the water.

"Vere does not keep slaves," Laurent said as the Akielon boy left the room.

"Vere does not take slaves," Auguste corrected. "This wouldn't be the first time Vere kept slaves taken elsewhere. But you need not fear, Laurent; the slaves will be freed as soon as the Akielon delegation departs. It would be rude to do it before then."

Laurent gave him a wintry look. "And until then, we might as well make use of them?"

Auguste raised his hands helplessly. "They were growing agitated with nothing to do! They thought I was unhappy with them. So, yes, I've set them to some easy work within the palace—I think they'll likely stay on as servants, after all, or pets. But they'll be free to do as they wish. They're fine, Laurent, I promise."

Laurent sipped his drink, mollified.

"There will be slaves in Akielos, you know," Auguste said. "You could try freeing yours, but I expect they'd just bring you more."

"It's disgusting. How can one person think they _own_ another, as if the slave isn't just as much a human being as they are?"

"You don't have to convince me, Laurent, I'm with you. But that's the way things are in Akielos, and while that doesn't mean you have to accept it with delight, you need to be aware that you're one man, the foreign husband of a lower prince at that. You can't expect to sail in and change their culture with a wave of your hand."

"I know."

"Sometimes I wonder if our pets really have it much better," Auguste muttered. "But their contracts give them _some_ protection… Speaking of which, Laurent—"

Laurent groaned.

"—you're fifteen years old, it's not too early for you to take a pet of your own. Might be good for you."

Of course it was impossible to explain to Auguste why that idea was utterly repulsive to Laurent. There were enough men in the world laying claim to Laurent's body. He would not volunteer for more.

"You could offer for Lucien!" Auguste said in a tone of sudden excitement. "Someone you already know and like—that makes it easier, in my experience. I suppose it's odd that he was my pet first, but it's happened before. And he's about to be out of work, after all." Auguste smiled, smug and dreamy, Tuvah in his eyes.

For a moment Laurent was tempted. He liked Lucien, and having a pet would help shield him from other offers, masking his strangeness—he wouldn't have to _actually_ do anything with him, that would be between him and Lucien—

Then he imagined Uncle's reaction to Laurent taking a pet, and knew it would never happen. It would not be worth the consequences to try.

Silence fell again.

"I know something's wrong, brother," Auguste said softly. "I may be busy making laws and putting out fires and mediating disputes and getting married and all of those distracting things, but I'm not blind. I tried to put it down to mourning for Father, and being upset about the betrothal, but I think it's more than that."

"As if it would need to be more than that."

"To keep you from talking to me? I hope it would."

Laurent's eyes burned, as did his throat, words crowding up inside it—but what words? Where could he start? What could he say? He knew that what was happening between him and Uncle was wrong. If he had any spine, he could stop it himself. If he'd had any spine, it never would have begun. What could he say? That he'd participated in disgusting incestuous acts without meaningful protest, but he'd like it to stop now?

Would Auguste even believe him? Who could imagine their uncle, wise and honorable, always the voice of reason, doing such a thing? At best he'd be locked up for madness and delusions, at worst called a liar, seeking his brother's attention by destroying his poor uncle.

No, there was no version of this conversation that didn't end in Auguste recoiling from him in disgust. Nothing was worth that, not even the chance to get away from Uncle.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, brother," Laurent said, his voice breaking. He couldn't meet Auguste's eyes. "I've been spiteful and unforgiving about my betrothal, that's all. But now that I've met Kastor, I know it won't be so bad. I'll be better. You don't need to worry about it anymore. I'll be better, I promise."

Auguste moved closer and put an arm around Laurent's shoulders. "All right, then," he said tentatively. "I hope you know you can always tell me the truth, about anything."

"I know." And he _had_ told the truth, or near enough. He did feel better about the marriage now that Kastor was a known element—unwanted and disliked, but known. Eventually he would move to Akielos, and leave his uncle behind, and things would get better.

***

The wedding ceremony would take place that evening; during the day, apparently, the tradition was for the guests to entertain the bride and groom with contests for their favor. Hours of wrestling, riding, racing, archery, and swordfighting rather negated the bath Damen had just taken, but ah well, that was symbolic anyway. He wasn't going to protest a chance to spend the day showing off all his favorite skills.

"You have fun getting yourself bruised and battered in the full sun, brother," Kastor said, "I have better things to do." He joined a table of spectators, cheering on the festivities with drinks in their hands.

A few of the spectators discreetly excused themselves when the Akielon bastard arrived, Damen was displeased to notice, and Kastor's face soured as he noticed it, too. But others clapped him on the shoulder and welcomed him, restoring his light mood; the favor of a prince, even a foreign bastard prince, was always worth something to someone.

Damen was speaking to the master of ceremonies about which events he'd like to compete in, when he heard a surge of applause from the crowd and glanced behind him. Laurent, to his great surprise, was entering the ring.

The current competition was swordplay, and the young prince had been matched with a fair opponent, at least—not much older, all knees and elbows, with his body language showing more excitement than experience. Still, as Damen had seen in the bath, Laurent had the soft, slender body of a scholar. He was no swordsman.

Damen cheered for Laurent as the bout began, and hoped the poor boy would not embarrass himself too badly.

He did not embarrass himself at all. His moves lacked strength, but he had a swiftness and grace that many an experienced fighter would envy—that Damen envied, truth be told. He needed practice, but he'd had some instruction, and taken to it well. He lead his opponent in circles, dashing and darting like a minnow, wearing down and frustrating his more-experienced opponent until Damen began to think he would win after all.

He didn't, though; the other boy disarmed him, a brute-force move that broke through Laurent's elegant defense, and knocked him on his back in the dust, sword's point to his throat. Laurent conceded with an air of supreme irritation—with himself, Damen thought, since it did not interfere with his ability to shake hands with his vanquisher.

"Well fought!" Damen shouted, and wasn't the only one doing so. The crowd seemed evenly divided between those cheering the victor, and those praising and commiserating with Laurent.

"Don't take it hard, sweetheart," Kastor called. "I'd be disturbed if you were _too_ experienced at… handling swords, eh?"

Laughter greeted this tasteless bit of humor, and Laurent's cheeks went scarlet. His clear youth's voice cut straight through the noise of the crowd as he replied.

"Oh, should I be focusing on daggers?"

The ribald laughter redoubled, Kastor's tablemates nudging and pointing at him, and Kastor's face darkened.

For the first time, as Laurent bowed and left the ring, it occurred to Damen that it was _possible_ this marriage between them might not work out very well.

 

Damen competed in as many events as he reasonably could, finding few who truly challenged him and only one who could beat him at anything—archery, which wasn't his specialty anyway, and which he'd entered mostly for that reason. It was only polite to lose at something, when he was in someone else's court.

In the late afternoon, the bride and groom were whisked away to prepare for the wedding ceremony, and the competitions ended in favor of casual practice fights of all sorts, most of the audience drifting away. Damen was pleasantly surprised to turn around and find Laurent holding out a wooden sword.

"Haven't you been beaten enough today?" The words slipped out; Damen hoped they would taken as the lighthearted tease he'd intended.

Laurent's face was expressionless. "Call me a glutton for punishment."

Damen shrugged and took the sword.

He went easy on the boy at first, having no desire to hurt or humiliate him. Laurent didn't permit that for long. Using underhanded tactics that would have had him booed out of the ring in a real competition, he forced Damen to defend himself in earnest or suffer bruises.

"That was a dirty blow," he exclaimed, barely parrying Laurent away from his privates.

"I'd never win a fair fight," Laurent replied, unconcerned.

"And you value victory over honor?"

"If it's my life in the balance? Certainly."

"You can't think I'm going to kill you with a wooden sword in a public arena!" This time he had to dodge an attempt at his eyes.

Laurent shrugged, circling him. "I should practice as I mean to perform, don't you think?"

"So shall I, then," Damen said, and stopped holding back.

Within three moves he had Laurent disarmed and dropped, facedown in the sawdust of the ring.

Damen extended a hand to help Laurent up, wondering if the boy would be sulky and offended now—but Laurent was smiling as he took the offered hand.

"Thank you."

"For what, giving you a mouthful of sawdust?"

He dusted off his front. "For treating me like an opponent, instead of a child."

Damen chuckled. "Laurent, you have never been less than a menace to deal with."

"You flatter me. But I shall have to train a great deal harder than I have been, if I am ever to be as good as you."

"Ah, but Laurent," he slung his arm over Laurent's narrow shoulders as they walked out of the ring, "there's no need for you to ever be as good as me. We're allies, soon to be family. The only people who need to worry about my swordwork are your enemies."

Laurent cocked his head. "So long as the treaty lasts."

Damen would have liked to deny it, to say he was Laurent's friend and ever would be, treaties be damned. But those were not words a prince could throw around lightly. Perhaps if there were not so many people here… "All hail the treaty," he said, and hoped the warmth of his manner would communicate the rest.

"All hail the treaty," Laurent said, with precise and excruciating politeness, and not a thing more.


	6. Chapter 6

The wedding ceremony was beautiful. It could hardly be otherwise, with the efforts, money, and grim determination of half the kingdom bent solely on that outcome. However, it could easily have been grand and lavish and glittering, and still been an empty or even repulsive occasion, if Auguste and Tuvah had had no true feeling for each other. Instead, Laurent thought, watching tears glimmer in his brother's eyes as he put a ring on the finger of his radiant bride, it was a beautiful wedding. In spite of everything.

In spite of Tuvah managing to nick herself while cutting through the traditional white ribbons barring her way to the altar. In spite of Laurent having to chase off a bevy of rowdy children before they helped themselves to the croquembouche. In spite of Auguste burning his hand on the incense and then knocking it over and setting fire to the wedding canopy. Even the Touring of the Newlyweds, with the new couple loaded onto a litter and carried about to collect the well-wishes of the crowd, went off without a hitch after Laurent told the one tipsy carrier that his head would roll if he dropped the king and queen.

Laurent handed Tuvah up into the gilded carriage that already held Auguste. The carriage would bear them away to the Council Hall, where the assembly of councilors would observe the consummation of the marriage. Auguste could have chosen to have that ceremony open to all comers; Laurent was grateful he had not. He closed the carriage door on the laughing, glowing couple, and the carriage began to move away. Auguste spared Laurent a glance and a wave out the window. Laurent waved back, long after Auguste disappeared from the window, and watched the carriage until it was out of sight.

And suddenly it was over, the culmination of weeks of relentless focus. Nothing that happened now mattered very much, with Auguste gone from the celebration area.

Laurent's chest hurt, a sharp throbbing pain. Why did his chest hurt? Oh, he was crying. That wouldn't do. Laurent wiped the tears briskly away and tried to swallow down the pain, wall it away, quickly now before anyone noticed…

A hand landed on his shoulder, and he flinched instinctively but it was probably Damen—

It was his uncle.

Prince Laurent the Elder had paid less attention than usual to his younger nephew during the wedding festivities. He'd had many diplomatic duties to attend to, and pursued them beyond the point of duty to what probably counted as "scheming." Laurent had been so relieved to be free of his uncle's notice that he'd paid little attention to him in return, which was probably a mistake. In any case, it seemed his reprieve was now over.

But though his uncle steered Laurent into a quiet side-chamber, proprietary hand still on his shoulder, he didn't attempt any further… indignities.

"I need to speak with you, nephew," he said instead, "on the subject of your betrothal. More specifically, your betrothed, and your conduct toward him."

Laurent lifted his chin. "What of it?"

"Oh, yes, what of it? What objection could I make to your rejections of his affectionate gestures, your humiliating comments before large crowds, your avoidance of his company whenever possible?"

"I have done nothing that would offend a reasonable man."

"Prince Kastor is not a reasonable man," Uncle said matter-of-factly, as if surprised Laurent had not already perceived this and adjusted his behavior accordingly. "He is a crude, resentful and pigheaded man, and the success of a treaty between our nations rests on his goodwill towards _you_."

He was right, of course. His uncle was always right.

"You would like me to make nice with him," Laurent said, the words tasting vile in his mouth.

"Oh, I think you're going to have to do a great deal more than that, Laurent."

 

The Akielon princes had been given chambers in the grandest of the guest wings. Technically Laurent didn't have to justify his presence anywhere in his own palace, but inevitably there would be questions if he were seen here. He waited for the dead of night—long past it, really, since the wedding celebrations continued for hours—until he was lightheaded with fatigue, before making his way down the mosaic tiled floors to Kastor's rooms.

Even the servants had gone to their beds. No one saw Laurent—

—until he reached Kastor's door, and opened it to find someone else jumping back from the door, their own hand still on the knob.

Laurent and the stranger stared at each other in wide-eyed silence. It was impossible to mistake the young man for Kastor, he was far too short and slight, though his features did carry an Akielon cast. Laurent's eyes widened even further as he recognized him as one of the Akielon slaves. His clothes and hair were rumpled.

"My lord," the slave whispered after a moment, and executed an excruciatingly correct bow, one that would have been proper to give anyone of rank. Either he hadn't recognized Laurent, or was doing him the favor of pretending he didn't.

Laurent nodded back politely. "Um. Yes. You may go."

The slave scurried off without another word.

Well, it wasn't surprising that Kastor had brought company to bed, or it shouldn't have been. All the same, it was an unwelcome reminder of the man's tastes and habits. The slave hadn't looked bruised or bloodied—that was a good sign, wasn't it?

Laurent's heart was pounding as he slipped into the dark room, and up to the edge of the bed. Kastor was asleep, his breath slow and heavy in the silent room.

What was Auguste doing right now, in the king's chambers on the other side of the palace? Sleeping, perhaps, by now. In bed with his sweet, smiling bride, someone he adored. The consummation must surely have been awkward, but perhaps they laughed through the embarrassment. Afterward they would have been alone, to take their time with each other, tender and laughing.

Kastor smelled of drink and fetid sweat. He was snoring.

Laurent swallowed hard and began unlacing his jacket with shaking hands.

By the time he slipped naked into the bed, Laurent hoped he had talked himself into the proper mindset. He didn't have to like Kastor, didn't have to enjoy his touch, he just had to keep him happy in order to prevent war. This was for Vere, for Auguste, for his people.

And after all, he'd have to do this eventually. Might as well start now, when it would do the most good.

He moved closer to Kastor, but before he could muster the nerve to actually touch the man, Kastor rolled over and threw an arm across Laurent's naked body. Apparently pleased by what he'd found, he began burrowing into Laurent's chest, pressing his half-hardness into Laurent's thigh.

Perhaps Laurent could just… let it happen like this, without Kastor even properly awake for it… No, that would negate the point, which was to seduce Kastor, win him over. Uncle was right, Laurent knew enough tricks by now to please any man. This was no worse than anything he'd done before. Surely it was better, in fact—Kastor was his rightful betrothed.

"Kastor," he singsonged, trying to sound playful and affectionate. "Wake up… darling." He brushed a kiss against Kastor's mouth.

Kastor's eyes opened, and blinked, struggling to focus. As soon as recognition sparked, he recoiled, shoving Laurent away.

"Kastor?"

"What are _you_ doing here?" Clumsy with sleep and drink, Kastor fumbled his way off the bed and lit a lamp. Dim gold light glowed across an expression of unmistakable displeasure.

"I—I wanted to—we, you and I—"

Kastor swore mushily under his breath, scrubbing at his hair. "Pervy kid! What, jealous your brother's getting action tonight and you're not?"

"No!" Laurent straightened onto his knees, grabbing at the remnants of whatever seductive attitude he'd managed. "I know you'll go home soon and I wanted us to be together first, I want to show you how I feel—" He reached for Kastor, who put his hands up and stepped further back.

"Yeah, you've shown me enough of that," he said. "Get me in trouble is what you're gonna do. You're years away from being fair game."

"I'm fifteen," Laurent said stiffly. "I could have a pet of my own if I chose. I know how to treat a man in bed—"

Kastor made a noise like a child faced with a vegetable. "Veretians! What kind of mad, oversexed—get out of my bed, boy, and go back to your nursery!"

Laurent did get out of the bed, spurred along by shooing motions from his betrothed. Competing emotions churned in his belly, annoyance and shame and relief and fear of failing in his task.

"My lord," he said, a transparent flattery, "please do not reject—I wished to make up for my shabby behavior toward you, I have been rude and I don't wish you to think ill of me—"

"You have been rude, right enough," Kastor said, "and my soul does not thrill to the idea of being saddled with you as a husband. But I expected little else from a Veretian princeling. I tell you what, you have my full and enthusiastic permission to seduce me once your balls have dropped, eh? Now leave me in peace."

Laurent found himself being pushed out the bedchamber door, and then the door was closed between them, leaving him alone in the dark hallway.

He stood there a moment, rejection and failure stinging like a slap to his cheek. What would his uncle say? Could he not do _anything_ right, even after all of his uncle's training and preparation for this task?

Another door opened, on the other side of the corridor, and the other Akielon prince's head appeared.

"Kastor, can you let a man sleep without this constant… _Laurent?_ " Damen blinked at him in bewilderment. "What are you—why are you _naked?"_

Laurent closed his eyes and let out a streak of invective that would have made his mother swoon. His clothes, of course, were on the floor beside Kastor's bed.

Damen pulled him by the arm into his own chamber, and flung a blanket over his shoulders. "Are you all right? What is going on?"

"Nothing!" Laurent pulled the blanket tightly around him.

"So it's just an everyday occurrence for you to wander the halls of the guest wing, stark naked, in the middle of the night?" Damen crossed his arms.

Laurent stammered, and concern filtered into Damen's exasperated expression.

"Laurent, did something happen?"

"No," Laurent said bitterly, "despite all I could do, nothing happened whatsoever."

Damen looked from Laurent to the door, or perhaps past it, to his brother's chambers beyond. "Were… you trying to get in bed with Kastor?"

"You needn't sound so appalled," Laurent said stiffly. "We are betrothed, at least, and it's not as though he might get me with child."

"Of course I'm appalled! You're fifteen years old!"

"Why are you and your brother both convinced I am a child?"

"Because you are! _Laurent_ …" Damen muttered into his hand, something about oversexed Veretians. "In Akielos it is not done, to take someone to bed before they are grown. It is disgusting and wrong."

"Even if they want it?"

"Children _think_ they want a lot of things that are bad for them. They want to stay up all night eating sweets, they want to jump off rooftops with wings made of paper—that doesn't mean adults should let them. It is the place of adults to look after children, not take advantage of their immature judgment."

Laurent did not think his judgment was immature. He wanted to be offended. Instead, Damen's words made his chest ache and he didn't know why.

"Even our _slaves_ are not bedded so young as you," Damen continued, and shook his head. "If Kastor had not tossed you out, I would have broken every bone in his body."

Even the slaves? Laurent thought of the slave he'd seen leaving Kastor's chambers. He'd been young, certainly, but taller than Laurent, and wider in the shoulders, with hair on his chest.

_My uncle treats me worse than a slave of Akielos._

"I admit I wish Kastor had thrown your clothes out with you," Damen said dryly. "It's going to be a risky endeavour, getting you back to your own rooms without causing a scandal. You'll have to borrow something of mine, we can't have you wandering the halls in a blanket."

"I can always say I was wrestling," Laurent said. "Don't you Akielons do that in the nude?"

"And in the daylight." Damen ruffled Laurent's hair. "We don't need an elaborate Veretian lie for this, just some borrowed clothes. Come on, let's get you back to bed before you get into any more trouble."

Laurent let Damen fuss over him and usher him off, as he would have let Auguste. For the first time he thought maybe going to Akielos, where adults looked after children and where there was Damen, might be a bearable future.


	7. Chapter 7

Laurent's eighteenth birthday celebration was a grand occasion, despite Laurent's attempts to rein it in. It wasn't every day that a prince of the realm attained his majority—and departed the kingdom forever to marry into a foreign court.

Not that Laurent was leaving today. He couldn't even if he'd wished to; the ship from Akielos had not yet arrived, probably delayed by the storms they'd heard tell of off the coast. Only delayed, Laurent told himself. Even the jumpiest sailors had seemed to think the storms an irritant, not a catastrophe. There was no reason to worry for the safety of Damen's ship.

Though it would be just his luck that the universe would dangle one last bright spot in front of him—that it was Damen, not Kastor himself, that would escort him to Akielos—only to take Damen away from him forever instead.

"Do try to smile occasionally," Auguste murmured in Laurent's ear, startling him out of his grim reflections. "No one expects you to actually be happy, but a polite attempt at the appearance of it is only diplomatic."

"The Akielons aren't here yet to get offended," Laurent said lightly.

"No, but we all know one man who would be delighted to make sure they hear about it." Auguste jerked his chin at their uncle, enjoying a drink and a deep conversation with Councilor Herode at the other end of the room. "Whatever did you do to turn Uncle against you, brother? I would swear you were his favorite once."

 _I was indeed. And then I got old enough, strong enough, to fight back. To no longer accept being treated worse than a slave._ "You'd have to ask him," Laurent said, after too long a pause. It was the closest he'd ever come to actually admitting there was hostility between himself and their uncle. He wasn't sure how to feel about the way Auguste's face changed, startled and then deeply thoughtful. Up until this moment, Laurent realized, Auguste had thought the feud between the two Prince Laurents was at least half a joke, something he'd made up himself out of nothing. Uncle was so good at appearing reasonable, after all.

"The queen has not yet given me a birthday gift," Laurent said, instead of allowing the subject to progress any further. "Don't think she can get away with only a kiss and a promise this time!"

"Hey now, that was not her fault!" Auguste laughed. For his seventeenth birthday, Tuvah had bought Laurent a rare and expensive book, only for it to vanish in transit from Kempt, never to be seen again. "As it happens, she has given me her gift to give you, along with her apologies. She had to retire early—I insisted on it, she was doing so poorly. She's not been well these past few days, much as she's tried to hide it."

"Oh?" Laurent's glance at his brother was sharp with rising hope—

But Auguste answered him with a subtle shake of the head. "Nothing serious, only one of those terrible, lingering headaches she gets now and then."

Laurent let out a disappointed breath. "I know those are a great trial to her. I'm sure you did right by sending her to bed."

They shared a moment of bleak and unhappy silence. It was an elephant in the room for the entire court, Tuvah's failure to conceive a child in the three years of her marriage to Auguste. Even a lost pregnancy would have at least provided hope of future success; instead, there had been nothing at all.

A lot of eyes were turning toward Laurent, these days, and murmuring that perhaps they had been too quick to promise him to Akielos, when he might be needed here.

Of course the treaty could not be put aside, regardless of Vere's heir difficulties. Already Laurent's betrothal to Kastor had helped avert many a disaster, stabilizing situations on the border that had come within a hair's breadth of violence. Once violence had come anyway, but resulted in injuries only and no deaths—because some hotheaded Akielon's captain had called him down in the name of Prince Kastor, whose honor he would besmirch by attacking his betrothed's people. Only six months ago, a Veretian village under attack by Vaskian raiders had successfully called on a party of Akielons for aid; they would have been obliterated without it.

Laurent's people needed this treaty. Even if the betrothal could be dissolved amicably, the treaty would not stand long without that tie between their peoples. And without the treaty, there would be war between Vere and Akielos within a year. Hostilities along the border had run too deep for too long to hope otherwise.

"Laurent?" Auguste's voice was teasing. "Wake up, brother. Do you want these gifts or not?"

Laurent blinked the festivities back into focus around him. A couple of pets were dancing on a table; thankfully their clothes were on, for the moment. Servants were bringing out a new wave of food, prompting cheers and calls of appreciation. Musicians in a loft overhead were struggling to make themselves heard over the revelry. Auguste, in the seat beside him, was holding out two parcels wrapped in gold paper.

"Which is Tuvah's?" Laurent asked. "I'd like to get the disappointment over with."

"It's the little one."

"Of course it is."

Auguste cuffed him good-naturedly; Laurent laughed and opened the gift. A pair of earrings, tasteful pearl and gold. Tuvah had helped Paschal treat Laurent's ears when his piercings grew infected, a few months ago. She really was such a sweet girl. Laurent hardly hated her at all anymore—only very occasionally, in the bitterest dregs of the night, when everything about the day had gone wrong and his heart needed some familiar old resentment to wrap around itself.

He might even miss her, when he went away to Akielos. Not nearly as much as he would miss Auguste, but there was a thought that might make him break down in the midst of his own birthday celebration.

The box from Auguste proved to contain a selection of very delicate and expensive candies, because for some reason his brother found it amusing that Laurent had a sweet tooth, and that having it known embarrassed him so much.

 _No one will know that about me in Akielos_ , Laurent thought, and quashed the thought immediately, grateful that he'd had no wine tonight to make his maudlin tendencies worse.

Other guests had noticed that apparently it was time for gifts, and soon Laurent was receiving them from a boisterous crowd, which his brother attempted to form into a line. One of the more memorable was a live sapling, several feet tall, presented to him by Auguste's friend Romain.

"Your sense of humor is as bizarre as ever, I see," Laurent said.

Romain laughed. "It's some kind of rare, expensive fruit tree. My mother picked it out." He leaned forward, his face going more serious, and murmured below the noise of the crowd, "She and I both appreciated your efforts on behalf of my little brother."

Laurent blinked, surprised; it had been a couple of years now since he observed that Romain's youngest brother, Aimeric, had had the misfortune of catching Uncle's eye. A few judicious words to Romain and his mother (his father would have been useless) were enough to ensure that the boy was whisked away from court and never permitted in the man's company again. Uncle had been _incensed_ —it had been the first time he could prove that Laurent had intervened in his pursuits, though not actually the first or last time he'd done so. Court swirled with rumors, these days, about the horrifying sexual tastes of the elder Prince Laurent, and most people kept their sons away from him without Laurent having to say a thing. Anymore.

Auguste never seemed to hear these rumors, and Laurent could not bring himself to broach the subject. Their uncle was a genuinely good statesman, pragmatic and clever and shrewd, and Auguste still needed him. The kingdom still needed him. Even as it also needed protection from him.

"Aimeric is an artist, these days," Romain was saying, "and earning some renown for it, as he should, with his level of talent. You know how he railed against leaving court at the time—He mentioned the other day how glad he was to be studying art, instead of being stuck here with me and Father."

"That's wonderful news," Laurent said, and realized he was smiling much wider than was his wont. "I'd be pleased to receive some of his work, if he'd like to send it."

Romain's eyes widened; that was no small offer, from a prince. "I'll tell him," he said, and was swept aside by the next gift-giver.

The warm feeling in Laurent's chest persisted for the rest of the party. Even when his uncle presented him with the gift of expensive silk bedsheets—the same pattern that had been on his own bed when Laurent was thirteen—Laurent was able to smile through the surge of nausea in his gut, and make sure his uncle did not see him react at all.

****

Damen fought to sit up when the captain entered his quarters, his brain still trailing dream-images—drowning in the stormy sea, while Kastor sneered at him for mucking up this simple task of fetching Laurent back to Akielos.

"We've made port at Arles, Exalted," the captain said.

"Excellent! Good work. I'll disembark immediately."

"Immediately, Exalted?"

Damen rubbed his eyes, reaching for reality and sense. "As soon as practical," he amended.

'Practical' would have been in the morning, he realized, after the captain had visibly swallowed a protest and gone away. But he'd spent far too much time on this ship, lurching and swaying in the darkness and wondering if they were all going to die. If rank had its privileges, he was about to use his to get himself onto dry ground.

So he disembarked in the middle of the night, onto a damp but solid dock, with no one to meet him but the first servant that could be scrambled from the Veretian palace, with a stupidly ornate carriage to convey him in. He took with him only his own closest attendant, and Laurent's birthday present, and what clothes he would need to sleep in and to wear in the morning. Enough to justify a carriage, he grudgingly admitted.

The servant led him—attendants and luggage and all—through a side entrance into the palace.

"Your message implied you did not expect the full, er, proper reception," the servant said nervously.

"Exactly." Damen waved off the man's obvious concern. "I just want to sleep the rest of the night on solid ground. Proprieties can wait until the morning."

"Just so, sir. Er—Your Highness. However, as it's customary to alert at least one member of the royal family to the arrival of a guest, and Prince Laurent was still awake, I did take the liberty—"

"Damen!"

Damen jerked his sagging, sleepy head up at the half-familiar voice—noticeably deeper than when he'd last heard it, but surely it had to be—

The most beautiful man he'd ever seen, that's who it was.

Damen stopped in his tracks and stared as Laurent, in dark velvet finery with one sleeve undone and trailing laces, came pattering down the stairs toward them. At fifteen Laurent had looked younger than his age, a sweet-faced child; at eighteen he looked every inch a man, long-legged and broad-shouldered. His bright hair had grown long enough to pull back, and was falling in wisps around his face. He was smiling at Damen as if he were his favorite person in the world, and Damen hoped he was smiling back. He really wasn't sure _what_ his face was doing.

"We've all been concerned," Laurent said, his Akielon much improved and charmingly accented, "I'm so glad you're—"

His gait jarred on the last step, not expecting the end of the stairs, and he pitched forward. Damen caught him instinctively, a warm tangle of limbs against his chest. He smelled amazing.

"—here," Laurent finished, and blinked at him owlishly for a second before giggling and drawing back.

"Laurent," Damen said carefully, "are you drunk?"

Laurent took a deep breath, visibly pulling himself together. "My uncle was being an ass, so I let my brother persuade me to some wine," he said. "Which was a mistake, as I usually have none and thus have no tolerance for it. But it is my birthday, you know."

Damen smiled. "Technically, your birthday probably ended some hours ago. You haven't been to bed, then?" He could still feel the warmth of Laurent's body in his arms. "I don't want to keep you…"

"Your rooms are already prepared, come with me!"

Laurent led them through dim halls to what looked to be the same chambers Damen had stayed in three years ago.

"We remembered you brought a personal attendant last time," Laurent said, with a nod of acknowledgement to Lykaios; as a longtime favorite, she had accompanied Damen then as well. "So there is a second bed prepared for her. I'm sorry, we didn't expect two, but if you give us a moment—"

"Actually," Damen said, and cleared his throat, pulling forward the collared youth standing shyly at his side. "I had expected to do this a bit more formally, but—well, Laurent, this is Erasmus. Your birthday present." He used the Veretian term, proud of himself for remembering it.

There was a long silence. The half-forgotten Veretian servant's eyes were very round. All life had drained from Laurent's formerly animated face, leaving it stiff as marble. Erasmus blanched, perceiving this cold welcome. Damen quickly put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Erasmus is a very quick and obedient boy, I'm sure you'll—"

"You give me," Laurent said in precise, icy Veretian, "a slave?"

This was not going well, and Damen wasn't sure why. He turned his head an inch toward Lykaios. "Perhaps you and the Veretian gentleman could get my belongings settled inside the room?"

They obeyed with alacrity, disappearing behind the door with Damen's single trunk.

"Vere does not take slaves," Laurent said. "As a nation we are against it. As a man I am against it."

"You never mentioned," Damen said, thinking of the hundreds of letters they had exchanged by now.

"It seemed impolite."

Meaning he did not feel able to mention slavery without railing against it. There were abolitionists in Akielos as well, here and there; they were not rational, but they meant well. Damen let out a breath, frustrated and thoughtful at once. "I see. But you are moving to the court of Akielos, where slaves will be an inevitable part of your life."

Laurent looked tired. "Yes. But I did not intend to own any myself."

"That would draw a great deal of attention, and not in ways that would help you." Damen gave Erasmus's shoulder another reassuring squeeze, then stepped past him to speak very low to Laurent. "You would be doing both Erasmus and myself a great favor by taking him. My wife has made him unwelcome in our household, and he deserves better treatment than that. I chose you to gift him to because I know you would be kind to him."

Laurent frowned, and leaned around Damen to address Erasmus in Akielon. "Whatever did you do to offend Princess Jokaste?"

Erasmus's cheeks went scarlet. "I-I did nothing, my lord, I only—I did not ask, but the Exalted—I did not mean—"

Damen waved him to silence. "Erasmus had the misfortune to be… trained for my pleasure, specifically, before the slavemaster understood that my wife and I are strictly faithful to each other. It is somewhat uncommon for highborn couples in Akielos, but I swore to Jokaste I would never cause her the pain my father caused my mother, in lavishing honor and affection on a mistress. Or slave. Confronted with Erasmus, however, I felt responsible for his First Night." That he had also been rather taken with the boy's beauty and sweet demeanor—well, he hadn't been fool enough to admit it, but Jokaste could always read him easily, and it had not helped matters. "I made the mistake of suggesting to Jokaste that it would still be in the spirit of our vows if we saw to his First Night together… She disagreed. And has had an irrational dislike of Erasmus ever since."

"Surely you did not go ahead without her!"

Damen snorted. "I lived to board a ship to Vere, did I not? No, my trusted friend Nikandros saw to the task. I… should apologize, technically, for offering him to you when he is already—"

"Do not finish that sentence," Laurent said.

"What I am getting at, Laurent, is that by accepting the gift of Erasmus's service, you will be neatly solving a bevy of problems. He will have a better home, I will have a bone of contention removed from my marriage, and you will not only avoid appearing strange and prudish in your new court, but you will have a built-in ally before you even arrive. In addition to myself, of course."

"And Kastor," Laurent said, his voice very neutral.

"And Kastor, naturally. But Erasmus is very quick-witted and useful, and has the happy talent of going most anywhere unnoticed." Damen dared a smile, cocking his head. "Tell me that holds no appeal for you."

Laurent gave him the kind of glare that meant Damen was right and he hated it. Of course it would be the possibility of schemes and sneakiness that won him over.

"Please, Laurent?"

Laurent gave a long look at Erasmus, who was looking down at the floor, light from the corridor's sconced candles gleaming across his honey-colored curls and his golden collar and cuffs. Then he sighed, and rubbed his eyes, and said, "Fine, I'll take him."

Erasmus perked up, eyes darting briefly to Laurent before returning to their proper position. Poor thing would have been _devastated_ to be rejected by a prospective master; Damen was unspeakably relieved, for that and all the other reasons, that Laurent had proven amenable after all. He pulled Erasmus close and kissed his forehead.

"You'll be good for Prince Laurent?"

"Of course, my lord," Erasmus said breathlessly.

"I know you will. Laurent, hold out your arm like this, there's a formal gesture of transfer…" Damen linked Erasmus's arm with his, then slid him across onto Laurent's arm. "Take good care of him, Laurent."

Laurent let out a long breath. "I will. Goodnight, Damen." He turned away, Erasmus still on his arm. "Now we have to figure out where you're going to sleep tonight."

"This slave would be pleased with anything—"

"Never call yourself that again in my presence," Laurent said as they turned a corner and disappeared from sight.

"Happy birthday!" Damen called.

Laurent called something back in Veretian. Damen wasn't sure how to translate it, but he was quite sure it was obscene. For some reason that made him smile as he entered his chamber to get ready for bed.

***

The sailors deserved a rest after the stressful journey to Vere, but they wouldn't be getting it; due to their late arrival, Damen's ship would have only one day's rest before casting off for Akielos again. Damen paid the sailors a bonus from his personal purse to quell the grumbling. He wasn't in any hurry himself to get back underway, but there would be trouble if they were late returning. Not only would the preparations for Laurent's welcome start to stall out, but his father would worry, and Damen wouldn't have that—not in his father's current condition.

He didn't mention to anyone in Vere that King Theomedes was ill. No point in advertising weakness, even to allies.

Not that Damen had a lot of time for idle conversation anyway. The one day before their departure was consumed by a bewildering swirl of preparations for—

"What do you mean _the wedding?"_ he demanded, sidling away from the tailor who was trying to fit him, apparently _,_ for wedding apparel.

"Not the real wedding, obviously," Laurent said, grabbing Damen's arm and holding it still while the tailor wrapped a tape measure around it. "One of the grooms being in another country and all. This is the ceremonial _faux-mariage_."

"That just means 'fake wedding.'" The tailor was trying to measure his chest now. His tape measure wasn't long enough.

"Obviously. Like I said."

Damen wanted to tear his hair out, or perhaps Laurent's. " _Why_ are we having a fake wedding?"

Laurent looked just as exasperated. "Because we cannot have the real one!"

_"Then why are we having one at all?"_

Laurent looked heavenward and took a breath. "I forget things are simpler in Akielos. It must be fascinating. In Vere, it is customary that, when someone is marrying out of the kingdom—or even the community—a _faux-mariage_ is performed before the person departs, so that those they are leaving can also celebrate."

"And it doesn't matter that Kastor is not here?"

"No, for that is often the case. There are a number of traditional choices for stand-in; you are the most obvious, in this case."

"So I am to false-marry you in Kastor's stead." He wasn't sure why that idea was so very alarming to him.

"Precisely." Laurent patted Damen's cheek, while the tailor muttered about the thickness of his neck. "Don't worry, your part will not be complicated."

Damen felt that surely 'his part' ought not to even exist; neither his brother nor his wife would like to hear of Damen engaging in any version of a wedding to Laurent, even if it was only pretend. Leave it to Vere to come up with something so false and strange and dishonorable as a _fake wedding._

But Laurent glided off before Damen could express any of this, leaving Damen with nothing to do but fight with the tailor over the measurement of his inseam.

***

"Good evening, nephew," Prince Laurent the Elder said soon as the servant had announced him and bowed out. "I was surprised to receive an invitation to attend you at this late hour."

"It wasn't an invitation, Uncle, it was a summons," Laurent said serenely. He remained behind the grand oak desk, out of his uncle's reach, certain that his posture reflected only insouciant confidence. If one reason he did not rise to greet his uncle was that his knees might shake, he alone need know that.

He watched his uncle absorb all this—the discourteous words, the cold welcome, the odd contrast between the privacy of a midnight meeting and the presence of servants to announce him. Laurent wanted privacy, yes—but he was not leaving himself vulnerable, not one chink. A frown creased his uncle's distinguished brow, and Laurent was glad to have put him off his balance in some measure.

"You needn't have gone to so much trouble." Uncle's voice was warm and kind. "You know I am happy to speak to you at any time. It is only to be expected that you would want reassurance from the closest you have to a parent, this last night before your departure."

"Parent," Laurent repeated. "If you are the closest, I am an orphan indeed. I did not call you here to ask for comfort or advice, Uncle. It has been a very long time since anything about your presence could give me comfort." For a startling moment, his eyes stung, and he thought, _Why couldn't you have been real. Why couldn't you be the sane, wise, affectionate man you seem to be, instead of a monster with good seeming_. Before his uncle could pounce on this moment of weakness, he continued. "I brought you here to give you a warning."

"Oh?" Uncle's expression did not change, but his eyes went hard.

"I am leaving Vere, but I have many eyes and ears that will remain. If you cannot restrict your appetites to those with the capacity to return them, I will know, and I will make sure everyone else does, too."

"You have already done your best to besmear my reputation," Uncle said, his face growing red. "What more can you possibly—"

"Oh, I can do much more, and you know it. Do you really think my brother would call me a liar if I came to him with this? Now that we are men together, and none can call me an overwrought child?"

"Your brother would never—"

"Will you risk it?" To his surprise, Laurent found he was standing, leaning over the desk to look his uncle in the eye. "Will you risk being shamed and shunned and exiled from court at best, with your head on a block at worst? Or will you leave the children of Vere—and every other nation—alone, and content yourself with the cornucopia of harmless perversions our nation has to offer?" Laurent leaned closer, when his uncle did not answer, and spoke lower. "If you ever touch another child, I will ruin you. I will do whatever it _takes_ to ruin you. I will tell my brother. I will tell the King of Akielos. I will come back to Vere and read out your sins from the top of the east tower. And then I will creep into your bedroom in the night and cut off your dick and balls. Do you understand?"

His uncle was speechless, Laurent realized after a moment of stunned silence. His face had gone from red to white, his expression frozen in a tumult of rage and shock and terror.

"You may leave now," Laurent said, and only sank back into his seat, trembling, after his uncle had been shown the door.

***

The _faux-mariage,_ Damen was assured, was not nearly as grand as a true royal wedding would have been—partly because of its falseness, and its hastiness, and its early hour so the ship could make the first tide, and partly too because the court had only just pulled out all the stops to celebrate the prince's birthday.

"It's good that you mentioned the subdued nature of this event," Damen said to the simpering little man assigned to guide him through his paces, "or I would never have known."

The ceremony took place out of doors, if anything under the shelter of so heavy and magnificent a tent could be called out of doors. The sun was only just rising, casting light over rich brocade hangings, gilded wine glasses, profusions of greenhouse blossoms—even the candles were decorated with crystals and jewels. Insufferable.

Damen himself did not look much better, he feared. Though the royal tailors had muttered threats to cut their wrists in despair, they had nevertheless managed to cover him in enough opulent layers of fabric to shame a cloth merchant. The colors were mainly his accustomed scarlet and gold, but in velvet and fur instead of linen, with ropes of rubies pinned to his collar and white silk peeking out of artfully slashed sleeves.

"I can hardly move," he complained, but the head tailor only blinked at him.

"Why should Your Highness need to move?"

Why indeed. Perhaps the whole idea was to keep him from fleeing the scene.

The simpering guide had given Damen a short course in the wedding traditions of Vere, at least the ones that would be observed today, so in theory he knew all his steps. Laurent's assurance that his part would not be complicated was only true by Veretian standards; at his own wedding in Akielos Damen had done little more than show up. Here, he was to cut ribbons, exchange rings, light incense, open a wine bottle with a sword, and be carried about on a litter like a roasted meat on display.

The musicians were starting, which was the cue to begin the procession; to an accompaniment of fiendishly complex (admittedly beautiful) Veretian music, Damen began his walk down the aisle to the center of the tent. Every couple of steps he had to cut a white ribbon stretched across his path, held on either end by guests. The ribbon thing, he'd been told, was more traditionally for the bride, but it was becoming more popular for both parties to do, especially in same-sex weddings. Across the tent, Damen could see Laurent doing the same.

He had to hang back a moment, when he crossed the last ribbon, so that he and Laurent would arrive before the officiant at the same time. It gave him a moment to take in the amount of finery his faux-groom was wearing, and realize that he himself did, in fact, look restrained in comparison. Laurent looked like he'd stepped straight out of a song or myth, all in shades of ivory and gold, a circlet on his brow gleaming in the dawn light. His expression was composed and solemn—until he saw Damen, and smiled. He was so beautiful, Damen's breath caught.

The officiant spoke a few grandiose words in such formal, old-fashioned Veretian that Damen couldn't much follow it. Then he held out an embroidered pillow bearing two rings of intricately wrought gold. Ceremonial rings that they wouldn't be keeping, but would place on each other's fingers for the sake of ritual. Laurent moved first, delicately sliding the larger ring onto Damen's finger next to his true wedding ring. Damen fumbled a bit, when it was his turn, and Laurent snorted at him. Damen managed to show him a rude finger-gesture as he finally got the ring on him, and saw Laurent bite his lip, trying not to laugh.

"You may now kiss," the officiant said grandly.

 _What?_ No one had told him about a kiss. Probably they had thought it was obvious—it should have been obvious. Damen was not prepared for a kiss. For a moment he felt the same sick panic as when the Veretian 'dancers' had tried to bring him up on stage to participate in their performance.

Then Laurent raised his eyebrows at him, half a tease and half a challenge, an expression that said something like _Scared of little old me, O great Akielon warrior?_

 _Not even a little,_ Damen answered silently, knowing it was a lie, and the next thing he knew he was kissing Laurent.

It lasted maybe four seconds, which was at least twice as long as it needed to, and by the end of it Damen's heart was pounding and all his hair was standing on end. He hadn't expected it to feel like that. Hadn't expected to want more like he'd die without it. Hadn't expected Laurent to lean into the kiss, not stoically enduring but sweet and warm and wanting.

Now they were staring at each other, still standing too close, and Damen could only pray his expression wasn't as nakedly stunned as Laurent's.

The crowd cheered, and the moment broke. They both turned, raising their joined hands and smiling, smiling.

Damen was in a great deal of trouble.


	8. Chapter 8

Throughout the rest of the ceremony, which took a bit less than an hour, they were kept at each other's sides. Damen was hyper-aware of every touch, every accidental brush of their arms or fingers or thighs as they sat down. Even worse were the few moments he was unable to avoid looking Laurent in the eye. In those moments he felt terrifyingly bare, despite the weight of the Veretian costume dragging down his shoulders.

He made a point, during the festivities, of sharing several cute stories about Jokaste and little Egg, reminding everyone—someone—himself—that he was married already. Laurent always laughed at them. He had an adorable laugh.

Damen found himself drinking more than he intended of the over-sweet Veretian wine. Laurent barely wet his lips. Good, at least one of them ought to keep his head.

Erasmus, he saw with some amusement, had had enough wine to brighten his eyes and redden his cheeks, though he wisely stopped there. He had followed Laurent about like a duckling all day, with Laurent encouraging him to partake of the food and festivities. He looked a little awed by it all, but happily so, enjoying the spectacle like a child who'd crept down to his parents' party. A few people looked strangely at the collared slave attending so closely to Laurent, but when anyone inquired, Laurent blandly introduced Erasmus by name as "a friend from Akielos." Erasmus looked like he might die of mortification, but he did not gainsay it.

Only when they were preparing to be hoisted up onto the litter, with Auguste fussing over whether it was safe with the uneven weight of the two "grooms," did Damen notice the missing member of the royal family.

"Your uncle could not attend?" he asked.

"He said he wasn't feeling well," Auguste said with a frown. "I can't believe he'd miss saying goodbye to Laurent…"

Laurent waved this off, looking perfectly serene. "It's no matter, we said our goodbyes last night."

The litter hoisted, and had a wobbly moment, tipping down on Damen's side. He wasn't sure whether he instinctively grabbed for Laurent's hand, or Laurent for his, but it ended with both of them holding on white-knuckled to the other, then laughing and relaxing when the litter stabilized.

Relaxing, but not letting go.

 

Finally the two faux-grooms were seen off to the ship, shedding most of the party so that Laurent could have a more private farewell with his few intimates.

"I need you to make me a promise, brother of Akielos," Auguste said, gripping Damen's arm as Laurent, a few steps away, exchanged bows with a young man in a brown jacket.

"What promise?" Damen said warily.

Auguste lowered his voice and glanced sideways at Laurent, now speaking with Queen Tuvah, who kept dabbing at her eyes. "To look out for my brother. He's every bit as smart as he thinks, but not half as heartless. He will need friends to care for him, however much he denies it. You, I think, will be better positioned to do that than most."

"I… don't think…" Damen cleared his throat. "Kastor is the one who will be in the happy position of caring most for Laurent."

"Will he," Auguste murmured with a very polite smile. "Perhaps so. But my brother cannot have too many friends, I think?"

Too many friends was not, Damen thought, likely to be a problem for Laurent, prickly soul that he was. "My brother of Vere," Damen said, returning Auguste's arm-grip belatedly, "I give my word, Laurent can depend on me as his friend, always."

By this time Laurent had said farewell to everyone but his brother.

By unspoken instinct, everyone fell back a step or two to allow the two of them some semblance of privacy. Both the similarities and strong differences between them were highlighted as Laurent and Auguste stood facing each other, Auguste reaching out to put his hands on his brother's shoulders. He seemed about to speak, but no words came out. After a moment a couple of gleaming tears escaped the corners of Auguste's eyes, despite his best apparent efforts. Laurent did not cry; was, perhaps, so consumed by the effort of not crying that he could not speak, either.

Auguste, with a muffled gasp that probably wanted to be a sob, pulled Laurent into a tight embrace. Laurent bore it stiffly, his back rod-straight and arms at his sides.

"You will write to me," Auguste said, pulling back enough to cup Laurent's cheeks, like one would a little child. "Constantly."

"Novels," Laurent said. "You'll be sick of hearing from me."

The captain of the ship, watching from the rail, was eyeing the tide anxiously. Damen steeled himself to be the villain, and placed a gentle hand on Laurent's elbow, pulling him away. Laurent did not resist, letting Damen lead him up the gangplank.

Just before stepping onto the ship, Laurent suddenly pulled away and dashed back, throwing himself into his brother's arms with tears streaming down his face.

Damen, who really had had a bit too much wine, had to look away and blink furiously as the two brothers clutched each other and murmured whatever comfort they could. He thought of his own farewell with Kastor, when he left for Vere—a rather distracted arm-clasp at the door to Kastor's chambers. But of course Damen had been leaving for only a couple of weeks, not the rest of his life.

If the ship had gone down in one of those storms, it would have been the rest of his life after all. But Kastor couldn't be expected to anticipate that.

 

They did make the tide, barely. Laurent retired to his berth as soon as the dock at Arles had passed out of sight, and did not come out again all day.

Eventually, as the sun was going down, Damen caught sight of Erasmus carrying a tray of food to Laurent's chamber door.

"I'll take that," he said, and carried the tray in himself.

He had expected to find Laurent in a ball of despair or perhaps a sulk; what he found instead was a young man white-faced and shaky, sitting on the floor with his back braced in a corner and a bucket between his feet.

He looked up, frowned at the sight of Damen, shuddered at the sight of the food, and put his hands over his face.

"Leave me to die in peace," he said.

"You'll feel better if you go out on deck and get some fresh air."

"So everyone can admire me in my vomit-scented glory?"

"They're sailors. Seasick passengers are old news, however royal." Damen hadn't been seasick since his first time afloat, when he was hardly more than a toddler, but it had been miserable enough then to give him empathy forever. "Come on. You, me, and some of this warm bread are going up on deck."

"I'll kill you first." But he resisted only feebly as Damen pulled him to his feet, supporting most of his weight as they made their way above deck.

"This is mortifying," Laurent whispered, closing his eyes in anguish as sailors scurried to clear their way to the railing. Damen waved off a concerned Erasmus and Lykaios, transferring Laurent's weight to the railing and patting his back as he leaned helplessly over it.

"Feels better, though, doesn't it?" Damen took a deep, cheerful breath of the breeze and cool spray from the sea.

Laurent only groaned.

After a few minutes, however, he did begin to perk up a bit, enough to lean on the rail more like a man admiring a view, and less like a wet rag laid there to dry. Damen pinched off a bit of the bread and held it out. Laurent curled his lip.

"You need to keep up your strength," Damen said, waggling the bit of bread coaxingly, like he would have with his son. "Can't have you starving to death before we get to Ios."

"That's one way to get out of this marriage," Laurent muttered, then grimaced, apparently realizing he'd said it aloud. "Fine, I'll eat some bread."

He leaned forward and ate the offered tidbit right out of Damen's fingers, lips brushing warm against his skin.

Damen's mind—and body—flickered with the memory of those lips pressing soft against his, a false kiss for a false wedding that hadn't felt false at all. Mouth dry, he pulled his hand back more sharply than he meant to, and held out his other hand the rest of the bread for Laurent to take.

Laurent took it, face expressionless but cheeks red, when they had been pale with sickness a moment before.

"Your wedding," Damen blurted. "The real one, in Ios. It will be much simpler than in Vere. I hope you won't be disappointed."

"With the wedding?" Laurent murmured. "No, I'm sure that will be fine."

Some moments of awkward silence, while Laurent pinched off tiny bites of bread and ate them slowly. The setting sun made a glorious display of color across the water.

"Which way is Vere? I've gotten disoriented," Laurent said eventually.

"That way." Damen pointed. "And Akielos, that way. You can probably see land from the other side of the ship; on this side we're facing out to sea."

Another slow bite of bread. "Do you suppose I'll ever sail this way again? Or ride or walk… Will I ever see Arles again?"

"The point of the marriage is better relations with Vere," Damen said. "I'm certain there will be visiting back and forth. You to Arles, Auguste to Ios. All of us to Marlas. Who knows."

Laurent shuddered. "I would rather not go back to Marlas."

"Oh, it wasn't all bad, was it? After all, that's where you met me." He nudged Laurent with his elbow, teasing.

Laurent snorted. "Yes, too bad I didn't kill you when I had the chance," he said without heat.

"And now you're a sickly little kitten who couldn't kill a ball of yarn. Such a shame."

Laurent tried to shove him and only succeeded in knocking himself off balance. He returned to clutching the rail, looking a bit greener than before.

Damen found himself stroking Laurent's bright, silky hair before he could think better of it. "It'll get better. It might be bad for a few days, but then you'll feel better."

Laurent closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. "Promise?"

"Promise."

 

After the sun went down, the deck got chilly; Damen ushered Laurent back below to his chamber, where Erasmus was waiting with a clean bucket and some soup. His eager solicitude made Laurent clench his teeth, but Damen ruthlessly left him to Erasmus's clutches and went off to his own quarters.

Once in his own bed, Damen's thoughts drifted in a hundred different directions—his father's health, how much he missed his baby son, whether Kastor was still being difficult about the wedding preparations, hopes that they wouldn't run into storms again on the way home, wondering what sort of welcome Jokaste might have for him… Oh, yes, that was a lovely train of thought, he would stick with that instead of worrying about the rest…

Partway through a drowsy daydream about taking his wife to bed, a cold dash of panic hit him, as he realized it wasn't Jokaste he was seeing at all.

He threw the covers off and sat up, panting.

Perhaps it made sense that his half-asleep mind would confuse them. Physically they had similar coloring, a similar delicate beauty. In personality they were both cool, sharp, intelligent. In fact, the more he thought of it, the more Damen felt that his feelings—whatever feelings they were—about Laurent were surely because he reminded him of Jokaste.

Relieved, he flopped back down onto his pillow. Yes, that was it. He only had these confusing thoughts because Laurent reminded him so much of his wife.

It wasn't like that was entirely a good thing, even. Jokaste could be deucedly difficult sometimes. More so lately… Well, no, that wasn't fair. He wasn't sure if she was really any more difficult, or if he just minded it more now, for some reason. Sometimes he felt there was a new and alarming distance between them. Other times he felt the distance had always been there, and he just hadn't noticed.

It didn't matter. He had married Jokaste, had sworn love and loyalty to her even beyond what his marriage vows specified or his culture expected. He was not going to go back on his word, especially when all Jokaste had done was continue being the same as she always was.

And even if none of that were true, it still did not matter. Because Laurent was promised elsewhere, an arrangement of the utmost political importance. Damen would do nothing to endanger the treaty, and even less that would hurt his brother.

Damen turned restlessly onto his other side, facing the bulkhead. He hoped Kastor would properly appreciate the great chance he was being given, to be with Laurent.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for non-con at the very end of this chapter. It's no worse than anything in canon, I'd say, but a bit more graphic than anything I've had in this fic so far.
> 
> P.S. Do you know how many Western wedding traditions come from the ancient Greeks and Romans?? A LOT.

Laurent's seasickness abated after a few days; Damen had been right about that much. Laurent still kept mostly to his quarters—feeling steadily more sick, for reasons unrelated to the sea—the closer they got to Akielos.

Erasmus was solicitous to the point of madness, but Laurent grew to find a secret, shameful comfort in letting the slave dote on him. He was glad to have someone gentle and kind around him, someone that he could probably rely on not to betray him.

Damen was also gentle and kind, and would not betray him. But Laurent feared he would betray himself, if he spent too long in the company of the wrong Akielon prince.

It did not do to think about it. Laurent was to marry Kastor, a fate that did not excite him but that he had resigned himself to, and for very good reasons. And Damen was already married as well. There was simply nothing to be considered. They were not any kind of option as a couple, even if Damen were interested in him, which he had no reason to be.

Damen would be an invaluable friend to him in Akielos. He could not afford to jeopardize that, and there was no reason to. Damen's friendship would be enough.

It had to be enough.

 

When their ship docked in the bay at Ios, there was a crowd waiting to receive them—Prince Kastor chief among them, dressed in the Akielon version of finery, which was a chiton of purple and scarlet with shining gold borders and a gold sash. He still looked half-naked by Veretian standards, but everyone in Akielos would, and Laurent would have to adjust. He himself was dressed in full Veretian royal regalia, tight and uncomfortable and overwarm, but welcome in its familiarity; he looked grand and foreign and mysterious, and that was all to the good.

Servants disembarked before them, laying out a red carpet for Damen and Laurent to walk down, arm in arm. Erasmus, waiting to disembark after them, gave Laurent the briefest smile as he passed; reassurance, Laurent realized. He straightened immediately, locking his face into his best neutral-pleasant expression; if he looked unhappy enough that _Erasmus_ felt the need—and the familiarity—to reassure him, then he would cause a scandal simply by walking off the ship.

Damen's arm linked through his arm, his giant hand on top of Laurent's hand, was warm and solid and steady, a bulwark. Laurent would not allow himself to lean on Damen in any visible way, but he took comfort there nonetheless. No one would be able to tell.

The crowd cheered as Laurent and Damen came into sight, a swell of noise that made Laurent feel lightheaded again—or perhaps that was the sensation of stepping onto dry, unmoving ground after so long at sea. He stumbled, just the tiniest bit, and felt Damen catch and cover the movement, folding it effortlessly into his own bow as he presented Laurent to his brother.

Kastor stepped forward into a flourishing bow, and kissed Laurent's hand, a little more wetly than Laurent would have liked. Then he launched into some set speech in Akielon, his speech so fast and so decorative that Laurent could not much follow it, though it seemed to express a general sentiment of welcome. At the end of it, he pulled Laurent close with an arm around his shoulders, and turned him around to present him to the crowd, which billowed with noise once again.

The noise died away, and Laurent wondered, in sudden panic, if he were expected to speak now—but no, the crowd had quieted in anticipation of something, eyes on Kastor. He was waving someone forward, gesturing for the crowd to part for them.

"A token of my regard," Kastor said, much too loud for being so close to Laurent's ear. His breath smelled of alcohol. "Consider this beast a symbol of the joy and unity between you and I, as between Akielos and Vere. And after all," his voice dropped very low now, intended only for Laurent, "I hear you are a great rider."

In Veretian, the innuendo would have been clear. Somehow it sounded even worse in Akielon, and Laurent felt his cheeks burn, when the filthiest jokes of the Veretian court had not concerned him for years.

The filthiest jokes of the Veretian court were not holding him much too tightly and pressing a moist kiss to his cheek.

A finely-dressed groom was leading a horse into view—a gleaming blood-bay mare, her neck a glorious arch, her mane and tail ripples of ebony, her eyes bright and fiery. Her tack glittered with jewels. She was beautiful.

She was also cow-hocked, splay-footed and knock-kneed to the point of being a punchline. She could hardly walk without stepping all over herself. Either Kastor was an utter incompetent regarding horses, or he thought Laurent was.

Laurent stood frozen, aware that a foot away, Damen's eyes had grown very wide, one hand covering his mouth in a faux-casual wiping gesture. Elsewhere in the crowd, horse-wise people were suppressing—or failing to suppress—gasps and laughter, murmuring to their neighbors.

Laurent could either pretend to admire the horse, and look like a fool. Or call Kastor out on his mistake, and look ungrateful and rude.

He drew a breath.

"It is so good of you," he began, and paused to firm up his wavering voice. "So good of you, my darling, to give me this chance to do what I love best—to rescue a beautiful and sweet-natured animal from the tanner. It is my great pleasure, and perhaps my sentimental fault, to keep such horses as beloved companions, even if they can be of little use in the practical sense." For she would certainly never be any use in the practical sense—one hard ride would lame her forever. "What else is money for?" Laurent added with a laugh. "There are many worse things a prince can spend gold on than giving an innocent beast a comfortable life."

"Of course," Kastor said. "I am… so glad we understand each other." His cheeks had darkened—with embarrassment at his own mistake, or anger at Laurent's reaction? Had he deliberately set Laurent up with an unwinnable situation, and was irritated to watch him dance out of the trap? Impossible to tell.

He could, perhaps should, have bestowed a gesture of affection on Kastor then; he lavished it on the horse instead, dashing to her side to stroke her gleaming shoulder and velvety nose. She turned to nibble gently at his shoulder, surprising an honest laugh out of him; clearly she _did_ have a good temperament. And she was his now, a beloved pet he would be obliged to keep always. Laurent buried his face in her neck, struggling to control the startling surge of emotion that thought triggered.

The murmurs from the crowd were amused but approving, now. Perhaps he looked childish to them, but not foolish. He had passed his first test.

Behind him, Damen's voice boomed in sudden joy. "There's my Egg!" Laurent turned to see a very small boy running into Damen's outstretched arms, a woman approaching more sedately—Princess Jokaste, he had no doubt, and little Egerius.

The approval of the crowd increased as they watched Damen's reunion with his family; he peppered his son's face with kisses and tossed him in the air, earning shrieks of delight from the boy, before hugging him close again. Jokaste, her expression indulgent, let all this die down before sidling up to her husband to kiss his cheek. Damen wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed her mouth, with an enthusiasm that she did not seem to return. But then, Damen had always described Jokaste as reserved, cool-natured. She smiled, and did not flinch from him, she only seemed… distant. But if so, Damen showed no sign of noticing.

Kastor, Laurent noticed suddenly, had said nothing at all to welcome his brother home.

"Prince Laurent," Damen said, "allow me to introduce my lady wife, Princess Jokaste, and my son, Prince Egerius."

"Our brother of Vere," Jokaste murmured politely, "soon to be a brother in truth. Be welcome." She stepped forward and kissed the air beside Laurent's cheek—the proper gesture between rough equals. It was not required that he return it; he bowed instead, in the Veretian style to a high lady.

"I look forward to joining your family, sister."

"As do we all," Jokaste said. "My husband has talked of little else these six months." Her smile was not demure now but very, very sharp.

Damen had also said Jokaste was jealous, even toward such unthreatening souls as Erasmus. Laurent felt his pulse pick up. What did Jokaste know, or think she knew, about Damen and Laurent? That there was nothing to know might not prevent her becoming his enemy.

"Hello!" Egerius shouted, launching from Damen's arms into Laurent's, which scrambled to receive him without injury. "My name's Egerius!"

"So I've heard," Laurent said gravely, juggling the child into a more comfortable position. He was a sturdy little thing—three years old, if Laurent remembered right—with a square body and a wide, dimpled face, much like his father's. Tawny curls crowded his head, falling into unexpected blue eyes. His mother's color. "Pleased to meet you, Egerius. My name is Laurent."

"Laurent," Egerius repeated, utterly mangling the pronunciation. "Are you my new uncle?"

It had not occurred to Laurent that he might be anyone's uncle. He didn't have the highest opinion of uncles, as a rule. But of course Kastor was the child's uncle, and so Laurent would be, too, by marriage. "Yes, that's me."

"Good! I like you." He threw his arms around Laurent's neck in a bone-cracking hug. Laurent made a strangled noise, but endured, patting the child's back.

"Come, Egerius, do not murder your uncle until after the wedding, at least," Jokaste said, and Laurent saw the first sign of true emotion in her face as she looked fondly at her son.

"Preferably not then, either," Damen chuckled, pulling Egerius away. He went willingly, curling up against his father's broad chest. "Come, Laurent and I are exhausted from travel, let us get to the palace and rest."

"Yes, rest while you can!" Kastor said heartily, pulling Laurent against him again as they began to walk. "The wedding is this evening!"

For a moment, it was all Laurent could do not to run screaming back to the ship.

***

Laurent was given time to rest alone in his rooms—though 'his' was relative, as these were guest chambers that he would use only today before taking up residence in his husband's rooms. 'Alone' also proved to be relative; Laurent supposed he should not have been surprised that slaves did not count as company. With some difficulty, he communicated to the hovering non-Veretian-speaking crew of them that he preferred to be attended by Erasmus and only Erasmus. One of them, as they departed, made a very indiscreet remark about how much it would please Princess Jokaste to have Erasmus out of her household.

Erasmus blushed to hear it, but the gesture of favor from his new master—being his only attendant—seemed to steady him. Slave politics! Of all the things Laurent had never expected or wanted to worry about.

The rooms were well-suited to resting, at least—rather bare, to his Veretian eyes, but soothing in their palette, white linen and white marble and accents of gold. Vast windows opened to overlook the sea on one side, and some inner garden on the other, a warm breeze bringing the scents of strange flowers. Laurent thought of how much Damen had praised the beauty of Ios in his letters, how much comfort his younger self had taken in the idea of it. He tried to take comfort in it now, with his heart in his throat and his hands trembling every time he thought of the minutes passing, bringing him closer to his wedding to Kastor.

Erasmus brought him food—olives, yogurt, cubes of cheese and grilled fish on a long stick—and Laurent struggled to force it down. That was another thing he would have to adjust to, an entirely different array of dishes and flavors. Already he ached for a decent croissant.

He ate by a window, looking out into the garden and pointing out plants for Erasmus to identify. After a few minutes, voices drew his attention away from the bougainvillea, and he saw the royal family—Damen, Jokaste, Kastor, and Egerius—strolling into the garden. Damen, Kastor and the boy started chasing a ball to and from each other. Jokaste, a figure of white and gold as cool and serene as Laurent's chamber, ate sections of an orange as she watched from the shade.

Damen kicked the ball too far, and Egerius chased it around a corner. Damen followed after to keep him in sight. Kastor fell back to Jokaste's position instead of pursuing, sweaty and laughing.

And that was when Laurent saw something very interesting.

It took place in less than a second. Kastor reached teasingly for a section of Jokaste's orange; she granted it with a roll of her eyes. He bit it in half, then tried to feed her the remainder. And she ducked away.

It could have been boisterous affection between brother and sister-in-law. It was not. Kastor had moved too close, too gently, his gaze lingering on her lips far too long. And Jokaste had permitted it at first—unthinkingly?—before glancing at the corner her husband had dashed around. Then she stepped away from Kastor, her expression cold, one hand rising slightly to ward him off, and turned the movement into something graceful and thoughtless, a mere turn toward her returning husband and son as they came back into sight with the ball.

Laurent, his hand tight around the windowsill, glanced instinctively around the room to see who else had seen what he'd seen—but of course only Erasmus was there, and he was on the other side of the room, turned away from the window while he searched through one of Laurent's trunks for… something, who cared what.

It was important, it was critically important, that Laurent jump to no conclusions. What he'd seen might mean any of several things, or nothing at all. Kastor had attempted to take a liberty with his brother's wife, but she had refused it; that she had only done so because of Damen's close proximity could not be proven, even by Laurent to himself. It could merely be that Kastor was an unruly man with a poor sense of propriety and boundaries. In fact, Laurent already knew that much to be true. There might not be anything happening here that would cause pain to Damen.

Laurent was startled to remember that as Kastor's soon-to-be spouse, he had a stake in this as well.

 

Soon enough, Laurent's solitude—and his disturbed thoughts—were interrupted by a bevy of slaves who bustled in with their arms full of clothing, accessories and paints. Their apparent leader, an attractive young man with dark curls and blue eyes, bowed and introduced himself as Kallias.

"It is customary in Akielos for your husband's servants to prepare you for the wedding," he said in slow but accurate Veretian. Laurent noted the use of the Veretian for _servant,_ not slave; perhaps Kallias thought Vere had no word for slave. Alas that they were not quite that enlightened. "Of course you can direct us otherwise, as you like, Exalted, but we are all trained in traditional wedding dress."

"Who am I to contradict tradition, I suppose," Laurent murmured. "Let's begin."

Kallias, instead of keeping his eyes demurely on the floor, had let himself be distracted by something over Laurent's shoulder. Laurent turned, and saw the distraction—Erasmus, whose eyes had gone wide and his cheeks red, before he caught sight of Laurent and instantly busied himself with some trivial bit of the décor.

How interesting.

"Yes, Exalted," Kallias said, quickly conquering a momentary hoarseness. "If it please you, I will explain the significance of each piece as we proceed."

"I would like that," Laurent said. "And feel free to speak Akielon, I must learn to converse in it comfortably, the sooner the better. Erasmus," he called, ever so casually, "do come and assist."

"It would be my pleasure, Exalted," Erasmus said, and hurried to join them.

***

Damen was in the midst of helping persuade Egerius that yes, he _did_ want to take a bath before Uncle Kastor's wedding when an uncertain-looking slave—one of Kastor's, he thought—sidled into the room and prostrated to get his attention.

"Exalted, if I may be so bold as to request it," she said, "I think Prince Laurent would much appreciate your attendance in his chamber."

Damen blinked, looked at Jokaste, who frowned, equally nonplussed.

"You think?" Jokaste said. "As in, Prince Laurent has not actually requested it?"

"This slave begs your forgiveness for the forwardness," the girl whispered, her cheeks darkening. "But there is… the prince has… questions about his clothing that we find we cannot answer."

"But I can?" Damen was hardly an expert on clothing.

The slave seemed on the verge of expiring of mortification. "Erasmus suggested that your presence might be helpful."

Jokaste's expression soured, as it always did at the mention of Erasmus; she had been delighted for Damen to give him away, but it only partially made up for taking him on the long journey to Vere unsupervised. She would be even less pleased for Damen to go to Laurent's chambers because Erasmus asked him to, but Damen felt he had little choice.

"Lead on," he told the slave, and looked over his shoulder as he left, to point Egerius sternly into the bathtub.

 

He could hear the problem, or at least a symptom of the problem, several yards before reaching Laurent's door.

"—and am I actually losing my mind, or is this cut intended to show off _my breasts?_ The breasts I _don't have,_ on account of being a _male!"_

Laurent, he reflected, was not shouting. His voice was not loud, simply so cutting and crisp that it carried effortlessly over the ineffectual pleading of the slaves.

"You'd make a very pretty girl, come to that," Damen said as he came through the door.

Laurent turned on him with, if anything, an increase in rage, as he detected a target not so pathetically beneath his ire as a slave. "Your brother," he snapped, sounding hardly able to breathe through his fury, "is attempting to dress me as a _bride."_

"Now, Laurent," Damen said cautiously, "I thought you knew that skirts were commonly worn by both sexes here, trousers are very much the exception—"

Laurent snatched a long piece of white linen out of a slave's hands and tossed it to Damen. Damen held it up to the light.

"Well," he said after an awkward minute. "I admit this is what you'd call a… unisex cut, at best. But it's not unheard of for men."

"And the color?"

"White is traditional—"

"What color will Kastor be wearing?"

"Um." Damen cleared his throat. "Purple."

"Because white is for _brides._ "

"White is worn for a great many occasions—"

"And what's this?" He thrust more fabric into Damen's hands, this one fine and gauzy to near-transparency.

"It's a veil," Damen admitted meekly.

"Will Kastor be wearing a veil?"

"No."

"Because it's not customary for a groom to wear a veil. Only a _bride."_

While Damen flailed for something, anything, to say in his country or brother's defense, Laurent waited, gorgeous and incandescent in his anger. It was not a look that made it any easier for Damen to think.

"I am a man," Laurent hissed at last. "I may have been traded to another kingdom like a broodmare to a new farm, but I won't be bearing your brother any sons, and I won't be chopping off my dick, literally or metaphorically, thank you very much."

"It's not like there's anything wrong with being a woman," Damen said weakly.

Laurent continued to glare, not dignifying this with an answer. Neither of them could pretend that men and women held equal power in Akielon society—or in Veretian, either, though in different ways. If Laurent were ever to be taken seriously in the Akielon court, he could not afford to present himself as a bride, delicate and submissive.

"No, it will not do," Damen said with a sigh. "Something else must be found for you to wear. Yet there is some accuracy in it," he held up a finger, belaying the sharp words visibly dancing on Laurent's tongue, "as the spouse who is joining the other's court and country. You are at disadvantage, supplicant in a sense—all the circumstances of the betrothal and formation of the treaty bear that out."

"You argue then," said Laurent, "that is not I as an individual who wears white, but Vere. Symbolically."

"Exactly."

Laurent drew in a deep breath, let it out between snarling teeth. "That is… barely… acceptable. But no veil. And no… this." He gestured at the feminine gown.

Damen handed gown and veil to the nearest slave. "Take these away. Bring something equally fine, white, but in a man's style."

Not one but several of the slaves scurried out; Damen supposed it was a tall order to make, so close to the ceremony. The remaining two, Erasmus and Kastor's current favorite, Kallias, were in a far corner, heads bent together over some accessory.

Laurent stalked away to the window, where he stood with his eyes closed in a splash of hazy gold light, the sun slowly shifting from afternoon to evening. He was halfway to undressed from his Veretian garb, wearing only trousers and a white undershirt, thin and blousy. His hair was loose, bright in the sun.

"Laurent." Damen stepped closer, close enough to touch—and did touch, when Laurent made no response, put a hand on his shoulder to turn him from the window. Laurent opened his eyes, breathtakingly blue in the light. "Laurent, no one who speaks to you even once could doubt what you are."

"Yes? And what is that?"

"A man to take seriously."

Damen's hand had slid down from Laurent's shoulder to settle at his elbow. He ought to let go completely. He ought to step back. But Laurent was looking up at him, no longer angry, but uncertain and vulnerable, a face Damen was sure he showed no one lightly, maybe no one ever—but he was letting Damen see it, and Damen wanted to hold him close and tell him everything was all right.

"A message from the king, my lords," said a soft voice, and Damen dropped his hand from Laurent's arm instantly. They both turned to see one of Theomedes's messengers in the doorway. At Damen's gesture, he came forward and placed a letter into Laurent's hand with a deep bow.

"The king regrets that his health prevents him from attending the marriage of his beloved son and Prince Laurent," the messenger said. "He sends this letter of greeting in his own hand, to assure Prince Laurent of the warmth of his welcome."

"The king's health?" Laurent gave Damen a sideways glance. "This is the first I've heard of him being ill."

"I did not wish it noised about in Vere," Damen admitted. "But yes, my father has been ill for weeks."

"The exalted king takes comfort," said the slave Kallias, coming up behind Damen, "in the concerned attendance of his sons. My master tends to his needs with his own hands, most days." It was a bold interjection from a slave, but Kastor had mentioned liking Kallias's boldness. Though not in a way that was likely to work out well for Kallias in the long run.

"I went to see him as soon as we arrived at the palace," Damen said. "He is no worse, at least, than he was when I left. I am glad to hear Kastor has been taking such good care of him." Perhaps he would recover after all, despite the pessimism of the physicians…

"You're concerned for him," Laurent said, a tiny line between his brows. Laurent, after all, knew what it was like to lose a father, and in a much more shocking way than long illness. He put a hesitant hand on Damen's shoulder. Damen, who was in no way ready to lose his father, nor to become king in his stead, and grew distressed the more he thought of it, permitted the gesture.

"With the letter comes this token of welcome," the messenger said, and held out a gold ribbon embroidered with the royal crest, and bearing a ruby the size of a thumbprint.

"Ah," Damen said, having seen this before. "The idea is that you will wear this on your sleeve, Laurent, as a sign of the king's approval of you, despite his absence."

Laurent took it and nodded respectfully to the messenger. "It is good of the king to give me such thought. Pray give him my deep thanks."

The messenger bowed and took his leave.

Laurent opened the letter. Peering shamelessly over his shoulder, Damen could see that it contained nothing of great import, only a warm and general welcome to his son-in-law. His father's handwriting was alarmingly weak, but recognizable.

"I really do appreciate this gesture of your father's," Laurent said. "Even knowing full well he is ill, the court might have made merry by willfully misinterpreting his absence from the wedding ceremony."

Damen would have liked to say that sort of nonsense was only to be found in Vere, but he was too honest to commit to the opinion. No court was _entirely_ free of nonsense.

The slaves returned then, bearing not one but several options for Laurent's wedding garb. Damen excused himself and turned to go.

"Damen," Laurent said, catching his wrist even as the slaves hustled him away. "Thank you."

Then his attention was pulled away, into choices of fabric and sandal and crown, and Damen was left to walk back to his own rooms, trying not to touch the warm place he could still feel on his wrist.

***

Laurent would later remember the wedding ceremony as a series of steps, like the dancing maps his tutors had laid out on ballroom floors for him to practice. First step, dress—and in the end he was happy enough with the white chiton, bordered in purple and gold, and the Akielon-style crown of gold laurels. The ruby favor from Theomedes, and the pearl earrings Tuvah had given him for his birthday, made handsome accessories.

The second step was meeting his husband-to-be at the door of the palace, to begin the procession to the temple where all marriages of the higher classes were performed. They were to walk hand in hand, as a symbol of both parties' consent to the marriage; no one had remembered to tell him that, but he had had years to research Akielon marriage traditions. He took Kastor's hand without ever looking him in the face. He later could not remember anything about Kastor's expression on the way to the temple, whether he smiled at Laurent, or only at the crowd that escorted them, throwing flowers and cheering. He only remembered Kastor gripping his hand with crushing force, as if worried he would try to escape.

Akielon weddings did not have an officiant, as such; vows were exchanged in the form of a traditional chant recited together in public, the marriage contract was signed by ten witnesses, and that was enough for legality, though there were further traditions. Laurent had been practicing the chant since he was fifteen. He would not stumble, would not embarrass himself or his kingdom. He would sound fearless and unhesitating, and he would remember to unlock his trembling knees occasionally so that he did not faint.

So, the third step—chanting his vows in accented Akielon, his voice and Kastor's tripping over each other instead of blending. The temple, an open-air space of white columns beneath a grand marble roof, was too full to echo, but the crowd was surprisingly silent during the ceremony.

Step four: A matron of the family—Jokaste, to his surprise, since both Kastor's mother and the queen were dead—joining their hands together, and handing them bread to feed to each other. This was to symbolize nurturing and caring for each other. Kastor tried to make a sensual show of it, and Laurent genuinely tried to cooperate. He did not want to look as if he had no idea how to act with a husband. But his mouth was so dry that he choked swallowing the bread, and the romantic moment turned into Kastor laughing nervously and thumping his back.

Step six was the exchange of rings; Laurent felt the gold band settle around his finger like a noose.

Step seven was the signing of the contract. Laurent signed quickly, firmly, before he could think too much about it. It was far too late to balk, to think of taking this last chance to escape the marriage. It would be as useless as firing an arrow into stormy waves to keep them from closing over his head.

All the same, the sensation of the quill pen leaving his hand for Kastor's jarred his nerves like the clanging of a cell door.

 _For Auguste_ , Laurent thought, closing his eyes for the space of a fortifying breath. All this had been set into motion by Laurent's attempt to save Auguste on the battlefield at Marlas. And kept in motion by Laurent's loyalty to the needs of his kingdom and its king—Auguste again. And it had worked. Auguste lived. Any price was worth that.

Damen was one of the ten witnesses who stepped forward to sign after the grooms themselves. Once his name was written, he turned and embraced his brother, clapping his shoulders and congratulating him—and then turned to put his arms around Laurent as well. Laurent shied from the motion like a startled horse.

The flash of hurt on Damen's face—always so open and expressive—was too much to bear. Laurent clasped his hand instead, and tried to make a joke of it.

"I am a married man, now, Damianos, you cannot be so familiar with me!"

Damen laughed, forgiving the slight as easily as breathing, and returned the handclasp with vigor. "My mistake! I will leave all the embracing to my lucky brother."

Before Kastor—or Jokaste, who looked as if this comment was a shade too complimentary for her liking—could reply, the signing of the contract was done. Jokaste stepped back into her role as supervising matron, and called for the new couple to kiss.

Ah yes. Step eight.

It wasn't as if Laurent had not known this, and worse than this, was coming. It was no surprise. And yet it was a shock to find the moment upon them, before he was braced, before he was ready. For three years—since the day he told his uncle to get out of his bedroom for the first time—Laurent had not had to tolerate unwanted touch, at least not of… this nature.

Those days were over.

Kastor's mouth pressed hard against his, crushing Laurent's lips painfully against his teeth. It seemed to go on for years. Laurent thought of how Damen had kissed him at the _faux-mariage_ in Vere, gentle and slow as honey. Not Laurent's first kiss, quite—though Uncle hadn't been overly prone to them—but the first that had ever felt the way kisses were described in songs and poetry, like something he might want to repeat.

He didn't want to repeat this one. But he could endure it. For Vere. For Auguste.

Finally it was over, and the wedding ceremony was over. How strange a feeling, to have the thing he had been dreading since he was thirteen years old finally behind him—though its consequences were just beginning, and would last the rest of his life.

Feasting followed, hours of feasting, most of it a blur to Laurent. He strongly considered a drink, many drinks, to numb himself to what was to come. But drink had never made anything easier for him; if a thing was hard to bear, it was that much harder to bear with his wits muddled. There was nothing more terrifying than being unable to depend on his own mind or body.

So he could not blame drink for the way the hours slipped by, draining away from him like water from a cracked jar; he could not hold time in its place however he tried. He could not bring himself to eat much, and spoke even less. No one seemed to expect him to.

"Laurent, are you ill?" Damen asked at one point, pulling him aside. "You're not at all yourself."

"No? Who am I, then?"

"Forgive me, Exalted," said an approaching servant, "but the king your father asks for you."

Damen rushed off, looking worriedly at Laurent over his shoulder, and did not return.

At length, night fell. Time for step nine.

The wedding revelers formed a procession, with Kastor and Laurent at the head—holding hands again, and Kastor's grip was looser now with drink, his smile glowing and fond of all the world. He liked the attention, Laurent thought numbly. That was a good thing to remember about his husband. Kastor enjoyed attention.

The procession escorted them back to the palace, all the way to the doors of Kastor's chamber—their chamber, now—which had been heaped with flowers in sweet-smelling abundance.

Laurent had forgotten step ten, so he yelped in surprise when Kastor suddenly swung him up into his arms to carry across the threshold. Like a bride. The yelp provoked laughter from the crowd, and from Kastor, but it seemed good-natured laughter at least.

And Kastor himself seemed good-natured, mellow and happy, as he carried Laurent inside, to a chorus of bawdy singing that would likely persist outside the chamber all night. He kicked the door shut behind them.

"Alone at last," Kastor said. "Vere's prettiest prince, sold to my bed."

"Set me down, please," Laurent said, trying to wriggle free.

Kastor tightened his grip and laughed. "So eager! Not to worry, husband, the bed is just over here!"

He crossed the room and tossed Laurent down on the bed, hard enough that he bounced, and tore off his own chiton with a single motion.

Step eleven. Such an odd number. The last and worst part of the dance.

"Wait," Laurent said, trying to sit up, but Kastor was already pouncing on him, heavy as iron.

The room had smelled like flowers a moment before. Now it smelled like his uncle's cologne. Laurent struggled to breathe through the scent and Uncle's—Kastor's—weight on his body.

"Wait," Laurent said again, pulling at Kastor's hands as Kastor pulled Laurent's chiton up past his belly.

Kastor looked torn between amusement and irritation. "I couldn't keep you out of my bed at fifteen, but now that we're married, you want to wait?"

 _I didn't want you then, I just wanted to please my uncle. I don't want either of those things now._ "I just—need a moment," Laurent said, trying to slow his wild breathing. "Just give me a moment." This was part of marriage, part of the deal, he understood that, he just needed a moment to get control of himself—

"Trust me, you'll feel better once we get started," Kastor said slyly, and shoved a hand between Laurent's legs.

Laurent slapped him.

Silence, tense as a bowstring, both of them shocked at what he'd just done. Then Kastor's face hardened, and the back of his fist hit Laurent's cheek like a stone, snapping his head to the side.

A couple more blows left him too stunned to fight back as their marriage was consummated. Perhaps that was for the best, Laurent thought, watching the ceiling spin unevenly above him. He probably would have just gotten himself killed. Then there would be war. For him to go through all of this, and Vere to still go to war, would be worse than merely being dead.

He would have to put up with this, and worse than this, for the rest of his life, and they both knew it.


End file.
